


Fair Exchange

by WithThisShield



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Blood Magic, Bottom Cullen Rutherford, Cullen Rutherford Has Issues, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, Enemies to Lovers, First Time, Fuck Or Die, Halward Pavus' A+ Parenting, Healing Sex, Hurt/Comfort, Light BDSM, M/M, Past Torture, Pining, Punishment, Self-Harm, Smut, Soul Bond, Surprise Fluff, Top Dorian Pavus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-02-17 22:01:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 63,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21550462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WithThisShield/pseuds/WithThisShield
Summary: “What is this exactly, Father—ambush? Kidnapping? Warm family reunion?”Halward Pavus’s hand shifted to the knife at his hip. “Ambush, I’m afraid,” he said, and the room erupted into chaos as the smell of blood magic hit the air._______________________________A botched ritual leaves Dorian in a catatonic state. Wracked with guilt for tricking him into meeting his father, Lavellan is determined to find a way to restore her friend’s mind. But the counter-ritual has unintended consequences, and Cullen finds himself powerfully and exclusively attracted to that infuriating Tevinter Altus.
Relationships: Background Lavellan/Solas, Dorian Pavus/Cullen Rutherford
Comments: 238
Kudos: 287





	1. Chapter 1

Dorian loved needling people, and the Commander was an irresistible target.

He could admit to himself that it wasn’t very mature, deriving such pleasure from provoking reactions in others. He could even admit it was probably a holdover from his childhood, when the best and sometimes only way to get his father’s attention was by misbehaving in the most spectacular manner he could think of. There was _nothing_ worse in life than being ignored.

But none of that self-awareness quelled his desire to sneak up behind Cullen while he oversaw training exercises in the Skyhold courtyard and loudly proclaim, “Ah, the smell of mud and dogs, how I do _adore_ the south!”

Cullen jumped, and then turned to him with a murderous glare. “Maker’s breath, Pavus! One of these days I’m going to smite you on accident.” Though the glare seemed to say, _or on purpose_.

Dorian pressed a hand to his chest in faux shock. “Why, Commander, you’re tenser than a loaded trebuchet.” He paused to rake his gaze up and down Cullen’s delicious form. “I can’t help but wonder how fascinating it would be to see you finally _release_.”

It was hopeless, of course, the man was straight as an arrow. Dorian knew that. The Inquisition rumor mill had given him nothing _at all_ about who the Commander might have bedded, so either Cullen was exceptionally stealthy (ha!) or he did not seek partners for relief, but further prodding on Dorian’s part led him to be certain of his assessment. Cullen’s gaze, when it caught on anyone at all, lingered on women.

Still. _Still._ The good Commander was turning a lovely shade of red at the suggestive trebuchet remark, and whenever Cullen flushed like that, Dorian had difficulty _not_ imagining how the warrior would look spread out upon his desk, flushed and keening as Dorian rocked steadily inside him. Oh, how he would love the squeeze the base of Cullen’s weeping cock and hiss, _not yet, not until I say you can_. A shiver ran through him at the thought.

“Still suffering in our harsh southern clime?” Cullen said, misattributing the shiver. “I shan’t keep you in the cold any longer, then.” He turned away dismissively.

Dorian scowled. That would not do. Nobody dismissed Dorian fucking Pavus.

Much to his frustration, Cullen proved to be a master of the strategic retreat—never hasty, never seeming to give ground, the Commander just managed to somehow _not be there_ anymore the moment Dorian started getting to the good stuff. It was most irksome and left him in a near-constant state of dissatisfaction, wherein he would prowl the halls of Skyhold imagining what taunt he might have said next if the interaction hadn’t been cut short.

Dorian needed a plan. He could be strategic, too. He would get the Commander alone, in a situation that cut off easy escape routes, and then he would _irritate the living Fade_ out of Cullen. Yes, that should finally satisfy this strange preoccupation he’d been developing with the Commander. So Dorian attempted to goad Cullen into a chess match, because if he couldn’t pin the man down literally, then by the Maker he would pin him down with social convention.

At the time, the Commander simply snorted and dismissed the idea with a perfunctory, “I don’t have time to play with you, Pavus,” which would have been a fantastic opening for a lewd remark if he hadn’t immediately turned away to speak with an approaching scout.

But two weeks later, miraculously, a runner brought a note to Dorian’s nook in the library. It read: _Chess, noon, the garden. If you’re free. –C_

Dorian was elated. And nervous. And he needed to find a better mirror so he could practice his expression of smug superiority, the way a warrior might run a whetstone over a blade. Oh, this was going to be delightful.

He arrived exactly twelve minutes late, long enough for the punctual Commander to be well and truly annoyed at being made to wait, but not so long that a reasonable person might have given up and left. The Commander was seated at the small table in the gazebo, chess board already set, his right hand tapping an irritated staccato against the armrest of his chair. _Excellent._

Dorian swept over to the table and arranged himself in the opposite chair in a way that would show off his best angles. “I must admit, Commander, I hadn’t expected your message. I thought you didn’t have time to _play_.”

Ignoring the innuendo in his tone, Cullen grumbled, “The Inquisitor made it an order.”

Dorian let out a surprised laugh. “She ordered you to play chess with me?”

Cullen huffed as if he were already losing patience (which was _perfection_ ). “She ordered me to do something that isn’t work every day, and while I’m sure this will be tedious, chess fulfills the technical requirement.”

Cullen quickly opened with pawn to E4. Dorian took longer moving his pawn to match, making the gesture into a production designed to call attention to his elegant hands, but the Commander was barely even looking at the board.

Cullen pushed forward a second pawn for sacrifice, and Dorian raised an eyebrow. “Aggressive. Very well, I’ll bite,” he said, taking the pawn with his own.

They traded another four moves in silence, Dorian tentatively optimistic that he could thwart Cullen’s gambit. The Commander was still gazing out across the garden more than he was looking at the board, as if he were yearning to return to his piles of paperwork.

“You know, Commander,” Dorian purred, “if this isn’t holding your interest, there are plenty of other games we might play together.”

The Commander flushed, and his whiskey-colored eyes flicked over to glare at Dorian. The look was clearly meant as a warning, but it sent a pulse of desire straight to his cock; yes, he did very much wish to pound Cullen into the mattress. Such a shame that he would have to make do with simply annoying the man to death.

“Chess,” Cullen said, “is sufficient.”

“Tell me honestly, does that self-sacrificing Chantry boy routine do it for you? Because you _really_ don’t know what you’re missing,” he said, lips quirked, fingers splayed suggestively against his bare shoulder.

“It’s nothing personal.” Cullen’s ice-cold smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I dislike conniving Tevinter blood mages as a general rule.”

Dorian’s hand dropped to clench the armrest of his chair. _Don’t say anything, don’t rise to the bait, if you respond he’ll know how to hurt you again later._ But Dorian couldn’t keep the words inside. “I am not a blood mage,” he said, his voice low and flat and furious.

“No? Hm, a shame,” Cullen said mildly. “It’s been years since I’ve had the pleasure of beheading one.”

He resisted the urge to scowl. Dorian loved a good game of cat-and-mouse, but only if he got to be the cat, and Cullen was not cooperating at all. This turn of events was most unsatisfactory and required immediate rectification.

Dorian rifled through his deck of facial expressions and chose his haughtiest smirk. “Yes, I get the impression it’s been years since you’ve had any pleasure at all, Commander. Perhaps it would help if you take up a hobby that’s slightly less deranged than beheading innocent people. Have you considered macramé? I hear it’s quite soothing.”

At the word _deranged_ Cullen sucked in a sharp breath, as if Dorian had dug his thumbs into an unhealed wound, and he felt a spark of pleasure at having regained control of the banter. It was followed almost immediately by a small knot of worry that he'd perhaps taken things too far, and surely the other man would storm off now. But when Cullen leaned forward in his chair, it wasn't to get up but rather to reach for the chessboard and capture Dorian's knight.

Calmly, he said, “I'll have you in four.”

Dorian ran his thumb over the bands of his rings speculatively as he examined the board. He suspected Cullen was right, but it didn't matter, he didn't care about the game—chess was a means, not an end. He threw Cullen a sultry look. “Why wait? You could _have me_ right now.”

The Commander actually _rolled his eyes_ which made Dorian inwardly cheer, because he was winning the real the game, the only game that mattered, the game where Dorian elicited a response from someone who would rather ignore him. Of course that was when Ellana Lavellan appeared in the garden and made a beeline for them, apparently intent on ruining his fun.

“Inquisitor,” the Commander said, half-rising when he spotted her, before she waved him back into his chair.

“Oh!” Lavellan said, as if delightedly surprised to catch them there together. “Are you two playing nice?”

Dorian smirked. “I’m _always_ nice.”

“In that case I’m terribly sorry to interrupt, but something’s come up in Redcliffe, Dorian. Very hush-hush, and shouldn’t take long to resolve, but I do need you, specifically. We can take a team and sweep the area for Venatori afterwards, if you’re up for it.”

“Anything for you, my dear,” he declared overdramatically, as a cover for how sincerely he meant it.

Ellana always seemed to genuinely value not only his contributions to the Inquisition but also his presence as a friend. In the northern Circles, political machinations tainted every interaction even among apprentices, so Dorian had forged very few real friendships in his life, and each one was a treasure. He’d jump in front of a dragon for this elf with the glowing hand, he truly would; a mystery mission to Redcliffe was nothing.

Annoying the Commander could wait, he supposed.

******

It wasn’t that Ellana Lavellan enjoyed being sneaky, it wasn’t! She just knew Dorian was too proud to attempt a reconciliation without a little nudging, and family was important. Sure, he’d be surprised, and maybe mad at first, but he’d thank her later when he realized it was all for the best.

She followed close behind as Dorian pushed through the door of the Gull and Lantern. Anticipation curled tight and sweet in her chest, but she managed to keep the grin off her face, not wanting to give away the surprise.

He stepped further into the main room of the tavern and glanced around suspiciously. “The place is deserted. Is this normal, or—?” 

“Dorian.”

The older man who stepped out of the shadows was richly dressed and moved with a familiar, regal self-possession, though his face seemed more haggard than Ellana had expected of a Pavus. Following two steps behind was an elven boy, hands clasped and eyes downcast in submission: _a slave_ , Ellana thought, her glee turning sour in her mouth.

“Father?” Dorian said in disbelief, then he quickly turned on her, his mustache quivering furiously. “You knew about this? Is that why you brought me here?!”

“I… it wasn’t… it was supposed to be a retainer!” Ellana stammered. She was starting to realize the depth of the tactical error she’d made.

“I apologize for the deception, Inquisitor.” There was something hesitant in his tone at first, but then it shifted to resignation, or perhaps determination. “I never intended for you to be involved.”

Dorian’s nose scrunched up in his patented sneer. “What is this exactly, Father—ambush? Kidnapping? Warm family reunion?”

Halward Pavus’s hand shifted to the knife at his hip. “Ambush, I’m afraid,” he said, and the room erupted into chaos as the smell of blood magic hit the air.

The elven boy fell to his knees, hands scrabbling at his throat, blood pumping between his fingers and twisting up in sickening tendrils. Ellana and Dorian whipped their staves off their backs, her betrayal momentarily forgotten as they readied spells in concert, her on defense and him on offense, working together like the left and right hands of a single mage. But the invisible glyph beneath their feet flared to life, and they both slammed bonelessly to the floor. The air above Ellana seemed to take on a terrible weight, and she could barely draw breath, let alone move a muscle. She tried reaching for a spell, _any_ spell, but while she could still feel her mana, her mind groped ineffectually to shape it.

The way she’d fallen, she could barely see Dorian out of the corner of her eye. She couldn’t quite discern exactly what Halward Pavus did when he crouched over his son with the knife, but Dorian’s breathy hiss of pain painted a picture in her mind. There was chanting in a language she didn’t speak; there were inhuman shapes lurking and gliding at the edges of the room. If only she could call out—Solas, Cassandra, and Sera waited not thirty feet beyond the door—but all she managed was a thin, keening sound.

The blood magic humming in the air was rising to a crescendo as the magister’s words flowed faster. Dorian’s breaths turned quick and shallow, as if he were hyperventilating in terror. Finally as the magic peaked, he let out an anguished wail.

The door shattered open beneath a single kick, and their companions came pouring inside with weapons at the ready. A rain of arrows had Halward on the defensive, and Cassandra cleansed the glyph that had been pinning them to the floor. Ellana scrambled to grab her staff and rise to her feet, but by the time her vertigo faded, the others had taken down Halward Pavus, either dead or unconscious. She didn’t much care at the moment, though she viciously hoped for _dead_ , because Dorian had not moved from where he’d fallen.

Her heart fluttering in panic, Ellana threw herself to her knees next to where Dorian lay. He was breathing, he had a pulse, his skin was warm… but his open eyes stared at nothing.

Dorian was gone.

******

Cullen leaned on the parapet and scowled down at the Inquisitor’s party as they cross the bridge into Skyhold.

There had been a raven indicating that Lavellan’s mysterious mission to Redcliffe had gone sideways, and they were returning early from the Hinterlands with a prisoner and an unconscious Dorian. Thin on the details, as raven messages were wont to be, though Cullen expected to hear more soon enough. For now, he didn’t know what to think. Dorian got on his nerves for all the obvious reasons (dangerous mage, entitled snob, incapable of taking anything seriously) and also because he actively tried to. So Cullen was left in the uncomfortable position of feeling guilty for a variety of uncharitable thoughts, such as, _well at least if he’s catatonic that will shut him up for a while_.

He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to soothe the first spikes of what promised to be a magnificent withdrawal headache.

Later that day, after a thorough debriefing in the War Room, Lavellan rested a hand on Cullen's vambrace-covered arm to delay him while the others made their way out. “We had to keep the magister sedated on the trip here so he wouldn't escape, but now that he's awake in the dungeon... well, apparently he's refusing to speak.” She swallowed thickly. “If there's to be any hope of restoring Dorian, I need to know exactly what that monster did to him.”

“And you think I know how to make mages talk,” he said, voice flat. “Because of Kirkwall.” She wasn't wrong, but it still stung that when the problem was _how to torture information out of a mage_ , Cullen was the Inquisitor's first stop, even before Leliana. Cullen felt his old, familiar self-loathing stir in his mind, but he grabbed it by the scruff and shoved it back down into the dark corner where it lived.

Lavellan worried her lower lip with her teeth. “I know you won't thank me for this, but you have carte blanche. Get him talking. Whatever it takes.”

Cullen wanted to scream. He had never led an interrogation sober, without the cool, clean disconnect of a lyrium high to dampen his empathy. The craving itched at the back of his skull and pinched along the bridge of his nose. Somehow, his voice came out neutral when he said, “It will be done.”

He took the stairs down to the dungeon in a daze, as if he were watching someone else take his body through the motions. There was a templar posted just outside the cell, and Cullen nodded a silent acknowledgement to the man before placing a wooden stool in front of the bars and settling himself comfortably, as if he planned to stay a while.

The prisoner sat on his cot, back straight, manacled hands on his knees, staring at the opposite wall and ignoring Cullen’s arrival. The state of his once-fine robes and the accumulated stubble on his cheeks spoke of the several days’ worth of rough journeying from Redcliffe to Skyhold.

“I’ve been told you’re refusing to cooperate,” Cullen began. He paused long enough to see if the prisoner would respond.

The older man said nothing. His gaze did not so much as flick in the direction of his interrogator.

“You’re in rather a tight spot here, Magister Pavus.” Cullen kept his voice calm and even. “True, the Inquisitor is herself a mage and generally favors mage rights, but see… you turned one of her best friends into a drooling vegetable right in front of her.”

A twitch, almost but not quite concealed.

“Oh, did no one tell you? Yes, congratulations, you effectively murdered your own son by destroying his mind with blood magic. Well done, you. That’s one less thing for me to worry about, frankly—I’d send you a fruit basket to show my gratitude, but I’m supposed to be torturing you for information, and I don’t want to send mixed messages.”

Cullen paused again. He did not like this side of himself. He was being cruel, and he was _enjoying_ being cruel, reveling in how the tables had turned—a blood mage was at _his_ mercy, now, and he really didn’t have any to spare.

“Did you know,” he went on conversationally, “that some particularly strong-willed mages _never_ lose consciousness from a smiting? You can just smite them over and over and over, and they’ll feel it every time, until around the second or third day when their heart gives out. It’s exhausting work for the templar, of course, but we’ve got a healthy supply of lyrium, so I’m game if you are.”

As one might expect of a Tevinter snake, Halward Pavus had excellent control of his expression, so Cullen couldn’t tell why the man held out. Hoping not to further incriminate himself? Or perhaps he thought the _drooling vegetable_ line was a lie, and that his spell had worked.

“I have to be honest, I _personally_ am not all that invested in seeing you break sooner rather than later. If you’re still being stubborn when Dorian’s body dies, the Inquisitor will definitely let me make you Tranquil, and I could use a little nostalgia for the good old days.” He rubbed his hand against his stubble, considering. “Though I suppose she’ll give you to that Ben-Hassrath beast for a while first. I don’t know how much fun you’ll be after that.”

Later, Cullen would hate the part of his mind that was capable of stringing together such vile sentences. For now he was reveling in the sick thrill of watching the blood mage go pale despite Halward’s best efforts not to react.

Voice rough, the prisoner finally said, “I want to see my son.”

“And once you've seen Dorian lying unresponsive in the infirmary, you'll cooperate.” Cullen hadn't phrased it as a question, but nonetheless Halward nodded.

The prisoner was already wearing magic-suppressant manacles, so it was a simple matter to lead him up from the cells and across the courtyard, the templar assigned to guard him shadowing a few steps behind while Cullen's hand gripped his upper arm like a vise.

The infirmary was quiet, subdued, as if a presage of death hung in the air. Even though Cullen had known intellectually what to expect, it was still shocking to see Dorian with his eyes half-lidded and expression slack, tucked into a cot like a child’s ragdoll. His mustache was askew, and Cullen felt a completely absurd urge to smooth it back into place.

If Cullen expected the magister to wail and fall to pieces, he was disappointed; a muscle tensed in Halward's jaw, and his eyes went a bit moist, but that was all. The man had used blood magic against his own child, and he couldn't be bothered to show even a little remorse? Sure, Dorian regularly tested Cullen's patience to the point where he barely contained the urge to slap the man; he’d even once literally prayed for Dorian to leave him alone, but _Maker, not like this._ No one deserved this, death would be a kinder fate. The reassurances Cullen had been repeating in his mind— _I'm just bluffing, I'm not this person anymore_ —abruptly fled, and he felt genuine anticipation at the thought of the unrepentant Magister Pavus meeting a bad end.

A healer came over to speak with them about Dorian's condition. Apparently he was stable and could be persuaded to swallow water or broth, but they'd had no luck with solid foods. If nothing changed, he would waste away in a matter of weeks.

Quietly, Halward asked, “Has he moved at all?”

“He's breathing all right, and his eyes blink some times, but... nothing that I'd call voluntary muscle movement. No.”

“Well,” Cullen snapped, “you sowed your seeds and now you’ve seen the harvest. Will you answer the Inquisitor’s questions now?”

Halward sighed. “Yes.”

******

Four days passed. Dorian’s absence shouldn’t have felt any different from when he was out in the field with the Inquisitor, which had always been a source of significant relief to Cullen. But oddly, he now felt abandoned, as if Dorian’s incessant attempts at provoking him had become an essential component of his life with the Inquisition.

Lavellan and Solas worked tirelessly to find a cure. Cullen had little notion of what, exactly, that entailed, but he kept himself apprised of where the elder Pavus was at all times, and the Inquisitor borrowed him frequently from the cells. The Lady Vivienne seemed to be eschewing the situation, which made Cullen nervous about exactly what the other mages were getting up to that was apparently so distasteful. He wasn’t a templar anymore, though, and it wasn’t his place to police Lavellan’s magic.

On the fifth day, Cullen realized that a bit of policing would’ve been wise, after all. The Inquisitor called a War Room meeting to explain to her advisors the solution she and Solas had devised, and it was even worse than he’d imagined.

“Blood magic,” Cullen spat. “You want to try to heal Dorian with _blood magic?!_ ”

“Well, yes,” Lavellan said calmly, as if the answer were obvious. “The first spell was blood magic, so the most effective counter-ritual would have to be of the same type.”

They weren’t really going to entertain this madness, were they? Wordlessly, Cullen cast about for support; Leliana’s eyes were locked on the Inquisitor, her expression unreadable as always, but Cassandra met his gaze with an equal amount of furious disbelief.

It surprised them all when Josephine was the one who said, "How would the counter-ritual work?" She glanced up from her writing tablet and saw everyone staring. "What? Dorian may be a shameless flatterer, but I count him as a friend, and we ought to at least consider this seriously. We owe him that much."

 _Shameless flatterer?_ Cullen briefly wondered if they were talking about the same man. Shameless irritant, more like.

Lavellan said, “The ritual would require a second participant to give up certain qualities of their own mind in a… well, an exchange of sorts.”

“Qualities?” Cassandra sneered, not even attempting to hide her displeasure at Lavellan’s so-called solution.

“Yes, complementary to those changes that were forced during the original ritual. So in Dorian’s case, we’d need someone exclusively attracted to women, with a natural tendency to respond to authority, and willing to sacrifice both of those things.”

The Inquisitor was still talking, but Cullen squeezed his eyes shut. Exclusively attracted to women narrowed down the pool of candidates considerably, and neither Sera nor Blackwall were especially compliant in response to authority figures. It wasn’t as if Cullen had been _using_ his attraction to women for much of anything, not since Kinloch, and the comfort he found in blindly following orders had led to catastrophe in Kirkwall. They wouldn’t find a better candidate. He heard the soft, silvery scrape of chainmail as Leliana shifted her weight, which coming from the spymaster was the equivalent of screaming, _I am uncomfortable_ —trust Leliana’s ruthless mind to also leap to the inevitable conclusion.

It was obvious, it was logical, and it was _horrifying._ The Inquisitor intended to permanently alter his mind with blood magic.

“ _I won’t do it!_ ” Cullen interrupted, his hands white-knuckled around the edge of the war table.

Everyone fell silent and stared at his outburst. Cullen flushed.

Lavellan said, “I… no one was suggesting it should be you, Commander.”

He rubbed his face with a shaking hand. “Clearly, it has to be Inner Circle or an advisor. Asking one of our subordinates to sacrifice their ability to follow orders would compromise their value as a subordinate.”

“And,” Leliana interjected, “we can’t afford for anyone outside the Inner Circle to know about the Inquisitor using blood magic. If it got out, the scandal would destroy us.”

“So don’t stand there blinking innocently, pretending you didn’t already have me pegged for this.” For better or worse, he knew Ellana Lavellan, knew the way she preferred to gently manipulate people instead of speaking plainly to their faces. She probably came in here with an elaborate plan for how to maneuver him into volunteering.

Now she simply rung her hands, distressed and uncomfortable with confrontation. “It’s his only chance, Cullen. But I won’t order you to do it.”

“You’ll have to,” Cullen growled, and he stormed out of the War Room.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lavellan achieves mixed results.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for dubious consent

“Cullen...”

He knew Lavellan was standing by the door, having let herself into his office, but he did not want to have this conversation. Without looking up from his paperwork, he said, “No.”

“Commander, I require a moment of your time.” Voice firm now—an order from the Inquisitor, not a request from a friend.

He heaved a sigh and set down his quill. “Inquisitor.”

As she crossed the floor to stand in front of his desk, she laced her fingers together nervously. It was obvious Lavellan was still uncomfortable with exerting her authority—she’d made no secret of how much she loathed being called _Herald_ , and now she’d been thrust into a position of even greater power—but she was equally uncomfortable with not getting her way. And wasn’t that just a tragic contradiction, Cullen thought.

“I’d like you to reconsider.”

“Very well.” Cullen pretended to think on it, though really he just mentally recited the opening of the Chant of Light to fill the time. “Ah, how curious, I find my answer is still ‘no.’”

“I know you don’t particularly care for Dorian,” she acknowledged, doing her best to adopt a cool, professional tone. “Setting aside how either of us feel about him as a person, the Inquisition needs him. We’re drowning in Venatori and fighting an ancient darkspawn magister, and Dorian is our expert on Tevinter. Void, Cullen, he’s our _only_ researcher who reads both modern and ancient Tevene, he’s irreplaceable.”

Cullen lifted his shoulders in a slow shrug, his pauldrons creaking. “So do the ritual. Just find someone else.”

“It has a higher probability of success if the other participant is someone Dorian knows, someone he can subconsciously sense is familiar and worthy of trust.”

“Ah, well, that settles it—you should find someone he trusts, then, which certainly is not me.”

“Dread Wolf take it, Cullen! Corypheus is trying to _end the world_ and we need Dorian hale and whole and fighting on our side more than we need you to bone women.”

Cullen felt the heat rush to his face. “That,” he enunciated, “is hardly the part I'm concern with.”

“Then what is the problem?” Lavellan huffed, hands on hips, as if she were addressing a petulant child.

He inhaled and mentally recited lines from Transfigurations to keep his temper in check ( _My Creator, judge me whole: find me well within Your grace, touch me with fire that I be cleansed, tell me I have sung to Your approval_ ). When he could trust himself to speak calmly, he said, “I have… quite a bit of experience with blood mages and blood magic, more than you I daresay, and your enthusiasm for this is misplaced. Blood magic corrupts everyone it touches, and I must advise against it in the strongest terms possible.”

“Solas says there’s nothing inherently evil about blood magic, it’s just a tool, and like any tool it can be used for good or ill.”

 _Oh, well, if the self-important shoeless hobo apostate says so,_ Cullen thought, but had the good sense not to say aloud. Ellana was rather too devoted to her elven mentor. “And if it goes wrong again, and _I_ end up a drooling vegetable in a matching cot right next to Dorian?”

“The original ritual only did so much damage because the changes were being forced on him and Dorian was fighting it. Solas assures me that a willing participant is in no such danger.”

“But I am. Not. Willing.” Cullen had to unlock his clenched jaw to say more. “No amount of reassurance will make me comfortable submitting myself to blood magic, not ever, no matter the stakes. You ask for the impossible.”

“You are a stubborn man!”

“I told you before, and I meant it: you'll have to make it an order.”

Lavellan made a frustrated noise in her throat. “But if I _order_ you to do it, then it hardly counts as willing, and you'd actually be in danger!”

Cullen flashed her a cold smile. “Exactly.”

 _Checkmate_ , he thought, as Lavellan flounced out of his office. Cullen knew he had a reputation for being unsubtle, but he understood manipulation better than most would give him credit for. Serving under Knight-Commander Meredith had been a masterclass in it, and when he left Kirkwall, he swore that he would never again be so malleable, not for anyone. Better to be stubborn, and belong entirely to himself.

A thread of anxiety stayed with him, though, as he tried to focus on his stack of requisition forms. Would Lavellan become desperate enough to force the issue? If she made it a direct order, could Cullen bring himself to obey? A week ago, he would’ve said he wanted nothing more than to give his all to the Inquisition—body, heart, mind, and soul—this was his path to redemption, his sole reason for continued existence. But a week ago Lavellan was jokingly ordering him to work less and take breaks, not ordering him to become a blood thrall.

So when a runner showed up to report that _The Inquisitor requests your presence in her chambers at your earliest convenience_ , a cold spike of fear traveled down his spine, and to his embarrassment he actually grimaced while the runner was still looking at him. Cullen rearranged his face into an implacable stone mask, dismissed the runner, and pushed out of his chair.

He wanted to strap his sword to his hip. It would not have been strange to do so, he usually wore his sword when walking around Skyhold, but he was afraid he might be tempted to draw it if Lavellan said the words he dreaded. It had been seven or eight years since the last time he’d had a flashback strong enough to confuse the present with the past, but his self-control was already somewhat frayed from lack of sleep and the headache like a spike in the back of his skull. If he went in armed and he lost his grip on reality for even a minute… no, he couldn’t risk the Inquisitor’s safety like that, no matter what she wanted to do to him.

Cullen crossed the bridge to the rotunda, cut across the great hall, and let himself into the Inquisitor’s tower. He felt a bit like he was marching to the executioner’s block. The door to her chambers stood open, and as he climbed that last flight of stairs, the terror twisting like snakes in his gut abruptly eased. He knew he ought to be opposed to participating in a blood ritual, he could remember arguing with Lavellan about it only hours ago, but... why? There was a blank spot in his memory where the reason should be. The rationale must not have been very strong, if he’d forgotten the logic behind his argument already.

He reached the top of the stairs to see Lavellan hunched over her desk, sheaves of notes everywhere, deep in conversation with Solas. Cole was there, too, looking vaguely distressed, but that was hardly unusual for the bizarre spirit-boy. For some reason the large carpet was rolled and pushed out of the way, exposing the stone floor, and laid out on the Inquisitor’s bed was the unconscious form of Dorian Pavus.

The ritual, of course. They wanted to do it here. At the thought of blood magic, a pang of irrational fear went through him—but it was _irrational_ , wasn’t it?

Cullen cleared his throat. “You sent for me?”

Lavellan looked up, worrying her lip with her teeth. “I must ask you again, Commander: would you be willing to help me save Dorian’s life?”

He frowned. The answer on the tip of his tongue was _no_ , but the reasoning felt foggy. “I still find myself reluctant…” he began, dredging his memory of the War Room meeting and what he’d thought when she first proposed this solution. “But I could live without the things you mentioned. I… believe I can make this sacrifice, given the circumstances.”

Relief flooded Lavellan’s expression, though beside her Solas looked smugly pleased in a way that Cullen neither understood nor appreciated. She said, “Thank you, oh thank you Cullen, you have no idea what this means to me. I promise I will take good care of you and guide you through this safely.”

“As you say, Inquisitor.”

“Um… why don’t you take your armor off while we get everything set up.”

He shed his fur mantle and pulled at buckles and laces with practiced efficiency, stripping down to his shirt and trousers and setting the armor aside in a neat pile. When he looked back at them, Solas and Lavellan were dipping paint brushes into a wash basin and drawing symbols on the floor in something that wasn’t water; Cullen realized the Inquisitor’s wash basin was full of blood and felt a twinge of nauseous panic, though he couldn’t have explained why.

At Lavellan’s request, he slid his arms under Dorian’s shoulders and knees and lifted him off the bed. He felt lighter than he should have been, more like a frail southern mage than the battle-hardened staff-twirler he was. Yes, this was the right choice; obnoxious though he might be, Dorian didn’t deserve to perish in such an undignified manner. It would be one thing to die dramatically in battle, but if he knew he was wasting away while dressed in a knee-length patient’s gown that even Cullen could tell was unflattering, Dorian would find this intolerable. Cullen set the mage down carefully on the floor where Lavellan indicated.

Cole made a distressed whining sound in his throat. “This won’t help the hurt.”

Solas moved quickly to his side and said in a low voice, “You’ve done well here, spirit of Compassion.”

“It is gone, but won’t it be worse when it comes back?” Cole mumbled to Solas.

“Hush now.” Solas wrapped a gentle arm around Cole’s shoulders and led him toward the stairs. As they passed Cullen, Solas paused and briefly rested a spidery hand on his shoulder. “There is nothing to fear in this. Think of it as a kind of healing magic, that is all.”

Cullen narrowed his eyes at the elf, confused as to why Solas felt the need to reassure him. He didn’t feel particularly unsure. But before he could ask for an explanation, Solas guided Cole out the door, and he was alone with Dorian and Lavellan.

“What do you need from me?”

“If you lie down right here next Dorian, I’ll put you under and pull you into a Fade construct. The sigils are primed to give you the power to change aspects of your own mind, once inside the dreamscape. But don’t worry, I’ll be able to guide you through the process and monitor the effect on Dorian.”

Cullen lay down where she indicated, careful not to step on any of the symbols painted across the floor. He squirmed against the cool, hard stone, wondering how he was supposed to fall asleep when he was both physically uncomfortable and illogically nervous, but it wasn’t like falling asleep at all. He simply blinked, and the Inquisitor’s rafters vanished, and he found himself standing on the Imperial Highway.

The pale gray stone felt surprisingly real beneath his boots, though the landscape on either side blurred into murky indistinctness, and the sky was the disconcerting green of the Fade. “Huh.”

Ellana’s disembodied voice came to him, as if she were standing a conversational distance away. “Doing all right so far?”

“Why can’t I see you?”

“I’m a little busy holding together the construct, so… I’m only half here, really. Apologies if I get distracted. How do you feel?”

“I seem to be in one piece.” Cullen looked around again and jumped when he noticed there was a shadow in the shape of a man standing near him. “Maker’s breath! What is that?”

“Dorian’s here with us. Well, sort of—he ripped himself in half trying to expunge the parts of his mind that were affected by the original ritual. As we change you, we’ll try to pull Dorian along, back toward his old self, like a dolphin coasting in the wake of a ship. He’s not coherent enough to make the journey alone, but he can follow where you lead. You’ll need to, ah… be in contact.”

He reached to take the shadow’s hand. It felt nothing like flesh, more like trying to hold a thundercloud in his palm. Shadow-Dorian’s lack of a face was extremely disconcerting, especially when the touch made him turn his head toward Cullen, as if the Commander had caught his attention.

“This feels weird,” Cullen choked out, for Ellana’s benefit.

“Trust me, this probably feels even weirder for Dorian, assuming he’s capable of feeling right now.”

“What do I do?”

“Start walking. Slowly, just to test out whether he’ll follow.”

Cullen took a few hesitant steps, still holding on to the shadowy hand. Shadow-Dorian didn’t walk so much as glide behind Cullen, like a kite on a string, perfectly docile. It was grotesque and inhuman, and also ever so slightly heartbreaking if Cullen was being completely honest with himself—that _this_ could be done to a person who had once made an artform of verbal conflict…

He cleared his throat, which was certainly not feeling tight, not at all. “That seems to work well enough.”

“Good! Keep walking, and while you do, imagine you’re holding an object that represents your desire to please figures of authority and comply with their wishes.”

This was easy: the wooden box of his lyrium kit sprang into existence in his hand. It was the leash Meredith had tugged to keep him close at heel and eager to please. He fervently wished to be free of it in every aspect—the drug itself, the stranglehold of the Chantry it represented, the part of him that sought comfort in the act of following irregardless of where he was being led. Never again, _never again_ would he be manipulated and controlled like that.

(In the back of his mind, he felt a small twinge of irony. Why was this ironic? He couldn’t put his finger on the source of the sensation.)

“Now what?”

Ellana said, “Now you leave it behind.”

“You mean, just…” He mimed tossing it aside.

“Any way you like. Set it down, throw it, whatever feels right.”

Cullen didn’t know where the impulse came from, but he gave shadow-Dorian’s hand a reassuring squeeze. He took one last look at the box that had collared him like a dog, then twisted to face behind them and ejected it with extreme prejudice.

A quiver ran through shadow-Dorian, and the hand in Cullen’s seemed to solidify a little. He was still walking—strolling really, with the shadow coasting along—but now he had a nebulous feeling that they were moving toward something, rather than just moving down an endless highway. “Inquisitor?”

“Hah!” Ellana laughed. “It’s working, I think it’s actually working! Okay, so: now the kind of awkward part, you need to do the same thing, but for your… uh, attraction to women.”

This one was more difficult. Cullen had not fallen in love in Kirkwall, and had pursued few women in a casual way, though he couldn’t quite recall why that was. He had felt a strong pull of attraction—infatuation, even—early in his life, though, so _she_ would have to do as a symbol.

He pictured a copper amulet imprinted with the emblem of the Circle of Magi, four starbursts representing the four magical disciplines. It was the apprentice’s amulet once worn by the Hero of Ferelden, back when she was simply Neria Surana, a sweet and pretty girl who made Cullen’s heart flutter beneath his breastplate.

(And why did that memory feel like a knife between his ribs? Who could say.)

This object he did not throw; he paused and knelt and set it down carefully. Those feelings had been precious to him once and deserved more respect than the lyrium kit. But he would walk away from them all the same, because that was what he had to do.

As his steps left behind the amulet, the sense of a destination grew, almost as if there were a strange pressure in the air. Shadow-Dorian quaked and zapped, and there was tension like a bowstring drawing back… the Imperial Highway seemed to distort and fracture as if the Fade construct was losing coherency.

“Lavellan…?” Cullen said, his anxiety spiking.

“It’s all right, I’ve got everything under control, this is—”

Cullen abruptly woke. He opened his eyes to a view of the Inquisitor’s high wooden-raftered ceiling, and for a moment, he didn’t feel any different. Then he moved his head and saw Dorian was also shifting, awakening… and when had the mage become so breathtakingly lovely?

******

As the knife sliced into Dorian’s arm, he could not believe he was about to be mind-raped by his own father on the dirty floorboards of a tavern in _Redcliffe_ of all places, the indignity alone was too much to bear. But when Halward began peeling open his mind, Dorian’s righteous indignation fled him, leaving behind only desperate terror. If he could speak, he would have begged—he certainly had the first time—but apparently Halward Pavus had learned from his mistakes when it came to restraining his son.

Dorian had time to think, _I was wrong, there is one thing worse than being ignored,_ before the blood magic began to work.

His attraction to men dissolved as if Halward were steadily pouring a beaker of acid into his mind. Dorian clung to what he knew was true, to his memories, to _a glare from whiskey-colored eyes that sent a pulse of desire straight to his cock_ , to how badly he wanted to pounce upon the Commander in a dark corridor, press him against the wall, and…

and…

It was gone.

Moisture pooled in his eyes and he wanted to sob, but the damnable glyph wouldn’t allow him even that much movement.

Yet that loss alone wasn’t enough to satisfy his father. Because Father knew best. Dorian should comply with his wishes, agree to his mandates, stop being so frustratingly rebellious. This alteration took root and spread like some noxious weed, and Dorian frantically tore it out, an incensed gardener careless of what else might be damaged in the process. Something important snapped, and he plunged into darkness.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing…

Warmth. A presence near him. A sense of not-aloneness. Something familiar that settled like a fishhook inside him and reeled him gently along. He didn’t resist (he didn’t know what resistance was). Then…

Bright, pain, jagged edges rubbed together, popping like the return of a hundred dislocated joints, the scent of a summer thunderstorm, blinding white light—

Dorian regained consciousness slowly and with a profound sense of disorientation. He was lying on a different floor, glyphs and sigils drawn in blood all around him. The diamond-patterned glass doors looked rather like the Inquisitor’s chambers at Skyhold, and why _yes_ there was the Inquisitor herself perched anxiously on her desk. All of this he might have accepted as sensible, but the part that really threw him was the way Cullen—lying on the marble beside him—appeared to be staring at Dorian with _naked lust_ in his gaze. He must be stuck in a weird Fade dream, because that would never happen in reality.

“Dorian?” Ellana said, her voice alight with hope. “Can you hear me?”

He felt like a hastily assembled jigsaw puzzle—pieces missing, the image obscured by cracks, ready to fall apart again at the slightest touch. “Hello,” he managed to say, voice inexplicably rough in his throat. “Did I miss the party?”

It made sense in his head, but she gave him a quizzical look. Then Cullen's hand reached out and landed clumsily on his forearm, distracting him from Ellana, and Dorian patted it with an equally uncoordinated hand of his own, as if they were drinking partners trading assurances while a little too deep in their cups. Oddly, the touch did not make him fall apart, but rather seemed to help him gather his wits.

“What happened?”

“Magister Pavus’s ritual nearly killed you,” Ellana said. “We had to come up with a counter-spell to undo the damage to your mind.”

“Right…” He remembered Redcliffe, up until a certain point, but everything after that was either a confusing mess of poorly differentiated sensations or absent entirely.

Beside him, Cullen breathed, “You’re alive,” as if Dorian were some sort of unexpected boon, which was immensely confusing.

And if Dorian thought that was puzzling, then the wheels of his mind ground to an absolute halt when Cullen lurched forward, leaned over Dorian, and kissed him.

For a second all he could do was freeze as the Commander’s lips pressed softly against his own, but the touch felt warm and right, and when Cullen’s hand cupped his face, he gasped and returned the kiss with fervor. He laced his shaky fingers through Cullen’s curls and pulled him closer, exploring with his tongue, and _oh_ Cullen tasted like lightning and starlight and life itself. Cullen’s mouth was magic, literal magic, a healing spell for the psychic wounds, sealing the pieces of Dorian back together.

When oxygen became a vital necessity, he pulled away for a moment, both of them breathing hard, Dorian grinning like a fool. “Why, hello to you too, Commander.”

“Maker, you’re beautiful,” Cullen replied, gazing at him.

He felt kiss-drunk and perhaps inappropriately aroused, given that Ellana was still in the room. Focus, _focus Dorian._ “My dear Inquisitor, is this quite according to plan?”

“Well, I mean, it—it’s not _surprising_ , giving the nature of the changes, that you’d both come out of it feeling a certain attraction…”

Cullen snaked a hand around Dorian’s waist and pulled their bodies together, and _oh dear_ there was no mistaking the degree of Cullen’s ‘attraction’ with his impressive erection now pressing hot and hard against Dorian’s thigh. It suddenly seemed not so terribly urgent after all to get the details, not just this second, when he could be plundering Cullen’s mouth with his tongue instead. Dorian ran his hands over the _acres_ of delicious muscles, shoulders and arms and back, and felt like Cullen’s body heat pressing close could warm him down to his very core.

“Oh, please Dorian, I want you, I need you inside me,” Cullen was growling in between kisses, “I feel as if I’ll die if you don’t take me.”

That was odd enough to make Dorian throw a sharp look at Ellana. Was this a mere side effect or a part of the ritual? Was there a risk that Cullen might _literally die_ if they didn’t couple? Dorian himself was _fantastically_ hard and exerting a terrible effort to hold onto logical thought, when all he wanted to do was peel off Cullen’s clothes and sink into him—but honestly that wasn’t much different from how he’d expect to feel in the absence of blood magic, if presented with an armful of begging Cullen.

“Ellana?” Dorian squawked, teetering on the edge of self-control as Cullen sucked on his neck and rutted against him.

“I don’t know, I don’t know!” She flipped through her notes desperately. “Perhaps it’s safest not to fight the impulse.”

“Then I’ll trust you to see yourself out, becau— _ooohhh—_ apparently this is happening,” Dorian moaned.

Ellana let out an undignified yelp, hurriedly gathered her notes, and fled her own chambers, which really was for the best because Cullen’s eager hands had found their way to the hem of Dorian’s infirmary gown and rucked it up to slip beneath, and he did not expect their current state of dress to last much longer. Dorian had not quite lost all control of his faculties, though.

“Up, up!” he insisted, fighting to stand on somewhat shaky legs and drawing the other man to his feet as well. “If I’m to finally have sex with you, it won’t be on a blood-smeared floor.”

Cullen’s lopsided grin and reply of, “oh yes please,” suggested that he’d really only heard the _sex with you_ part. The warrior stripped the gown from Dorian, who grimaced as he realized he didn’t simply feel weak, he’d actually lost weight. Cullen didn’t seem to mind, though—he kissed a sloppy trail down Dorian’s torso until he was on his knees, pulling down Dorian’s smalls, tongue laving along the underside of his rigid cock, all while staring up with those intense amber eyes.

Dorian’s hips juddered, and he briefly considered what a pretty picture it would make to come on the man’s face while he knelt in supplication, but that’s not what Cullen had asked for. “Oh no, you shan’t distract me so easily. Clothes off and on the bed, my good Commander.”

Cullen scrambled to obey, and soon he was lying on his back, naked in all his glory, and Dorian drank in the sight. Broad, strong shoulders tapered to a trim waist, muscles well defined under a thin layer of insulating fat—he was Ferelden, after all, and bred to survive in this frozen southern wasteland. His body was practically painted with scars, and perhaps later there would be time to wonder at that or even ask about their origins, but for now they only added to his rugged appeal.

Kneeling over him, Dorian ran his hands up Cullen’s torso appreciatively, then lightly scraped his nails back down, making the warrior buck and writhe. He wrapped one hand around Cullen’s cock and thumbed at the slit, smearing the pearl of precome, then sucking it off his own thumb while the other man watched, enraptured. When he summoned a bit of oil into the palm of his hand, the casual use of bedroom magic made Cullen’s eyes go wide with shock.

Dorian smirked. “What, you didn’t honestly believe grease spells were invented for the purpose of making enemies lose their footing on the battlefield, did you?”

“It had never occurred to me to think otherwise,” Cullen admitted. “Now I know better.”

As Cullen looked up at him, there was a self-conscious hesitation in those tawny eyes that made Dorian pause where he might have ordered a different lover to _grab your knees and spread for me_. “Lie on your side,” he said instead.

Dorian lay down behind him and threaded his left arm beneath Cullen’s neck and over his shoulder, pulling their bodies close so he could speak softly in the other man’s ear. “Knees up a bit, there we go.” He ran his slicked fingers over Cullen’s balls, his perineum, teased at his tight entrance. “Relax, I’ve got you. We can slow down or stop any time, you have only to tell me what you need.”

“I need you,” Cullen said raggedly.

“Like this?” he crooned, wriggling a finger inside, and then ever so slowly plunging it in and out.

Cullen’s breath hitched. “ _Oh_ that’s— I’ve never—”

“Do you want more?”

“Oh _Maker_ yes!”

Dorian went slow, adding a second finger, for the moment ignoring his own throbbing cock where it pressed against the Commander’s lower back. The man quivered and wriggled in his embrace and made the most delicious sounds as Dorian stretched him open. “You’re so good,” he praised, nuzzling below Cullen’s ear.

“ _Dorian_ ,” he groaned. “I want— please—”

“You’re ready?”

Cullen squeezed his eyes shut and nodded emphatically, unable to put his need into words, and he whimpered when the fingers left him empty. Dorian slicked his shaft with oil, shifted down a bit on the bed to line himself up, and carefully pushed in. Cullen let out a low moan, and instead of tensing went almost boneless with pleasure, so he eased further and further until he was fully sheathed inside that dizzying, delicious heat.

Dorian paused for a minute like that, buried to the hilt _so deep_ inside Cullen, holding the warrior’s broad back pressed tight against his chest. And _oh_ this felt right, this felt like home, this was who he was meant to be. Cullen was giving Dorian’s own self back to him, and he felt a swell of relief and gratitude and intense affection.

The part of Dorian that might have questioned _why_ Cullen would do this went abruptly silent when Cullen whined and squirmed his hips in a wordless plea for movement. “So impatient,” he chuckled, delighted, and he rolled his hips in slow, languorous thrusts. Cullen gasped and threw his head back against Dorian’s shoulder, and Dorian traced the lines of Cullen’s exposed neck with soft fingers, not applying pressure, just _possessing_.

Dorian wanted to be gentle with him in a way that had never much mattered before. Cullen was precious; Cullen had saved him; Cullen was _his_. He pulled away slightly to adjust the angle, and when his cock hit the sweet spot inside his lover, Cullen cried out, “Oh, what is— _oh!—_ don’t stop!” and his hand flew back to dig desperate fingers into Dorian’s hip.

“Anything for you, amatus,” Dorian promised, quickening his rhythm as he rocked inside him. He would make Cullen feel so good that the warrior never wanted to leave his bed. _Oh,_ Cullen was so hot and tight and perfect and made him whole again, and suddenly it made sense why Dorian had never been able to leave him alone, because Cullen was his soulmate, Cullen was his everything.

Dorian reached around, and with a practiced hand, worked Cullen’s cock into an earth-shattering orgasm. The warrior screamed and bucked, and the muscles inside pulsed around Dorian’s own erection, pulling him over the edge along with his lover.

******

When Cullen woke up, he remembered every humiliating detail of what the spell had made him do. He had rutted like an animal against Dorian’s thigh; he had begged to be taken; he had whimpered and moaned and cried out while the mage touched him in places he’d never been touched before. _Maker’s breath_ , he had Dorian’s dried come in the cleft of his ass and down his legs, like some cheap whore. And there was a prominent and terrifying part of him that only cared about when he’d be allowed to do it again.

Cullen felt abruptly furious. The mage asleep in bed beside him was no better than a desire demon, twisting up his mind, using sex to control him.

A desire demon. Blood mages. Abominations. Gore-smeared walls, his friends’ mutilated bodies… the full memory of Kinloch Hold hit him like a maul to the chest, and he couldn’t breathe, choking on pain and terror. He could almost feel it again…

… _the sharp edge of the meat cleaver rests against his right wrist as two mages debate whether to chop off his sword hand— **no, no, no, please** he screams, not the part of him that makes him who he is, anything but his sword hand, and the other mage is saying **he’ll bleed out too quickly, Uldred wants this one alive** but the mage holding the cleaver wants blood—Cullen flashes hot and cold, the fear so intense he wants to puke…_

As he lay in the Inquisitor’s bed gasping for air, Cullen suddenly understood that _this_ was what Lavellan took away, what she hid to make him willing. Now he had no compliance left, he’d sacrificed it all at her behest. Uncontrolled rage bubbled up inside him, and he reached for those favored lines of Transfigurations to quell his fury— _My Creator, judge me whole…_ but his usual mantra brought no relief, and instead he found himself thinking, _fuck the Chant, fuck the Chantry, fuck everything_. He had no more servitude for the Maker than he did for the Inquisitor, apparently.

How ironic—it was Lavellan’s own fault that he no longer cared what she wanted. The only thing he had left was the truth he’d learned at Kinloch: _destroy or you will be destroyed._

Cullen rolled over, straddled Dorian’s sleeping form, and wrapped his hands around his throat.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everyone reacts badly.

Dorian awoke to the sudden and wildly unpleasant sensation of being choked by his paramour’s hands. He’d love to be able to say it was a first, but he was Tevinter, and sometimes gorgeous men you were in love with wanted to assassinate you, that’s just how the world worked.

Dorian cast a low pulse of mind blast, enough to knock Cullen backward off the foot of the bed. Cullen scrambled to his feet—he was breathing hard, nostrils flared, murder in his eyes, and Dorian braced for a retaliatory smite that, oddly, never came.

“Rude,” he pronounced, rubbing this throat. “So I take it the phase of our friendship where you beg me to fuck you is over.”

Cullen let out a bark of humorless laughter. “Correct.” At his sides, his fists clenched and unclenched, as if he were engaged in some inner debate about whether to pummel Dorian into a bloody pulp.

“You might have just sent a polite note, instead of throttling me in my sleep.” Dorian examined a hangnail on one hand, projecting an air of unbotheredness. His heart was still slamming against his ribs from the sudden shock of danger, but _show no weakness_ was a rule that had always served him well in the past. “You certainly wouldn’t be the first person to find that your unexpected attraction to men has vanished in the sober light of morning.”

Cullen’s gaze went flat and implacable. “It’s not because you’re a man that I find you so utterly repulsive.”

“How refreshing to be loathed for a novel reason,” Dorian drawled, desperate to hide how the words _utterly repulsive_ wormed down into his heart and took up residence like some putrescent parasite.

For a minute, Cullen just stared, his whole body tense. He was visibly shaking, though whether it was from rage or something else, Dorian couldn’t say. Then he bent to retrieve his clothes from where they’d been discarded on the floor.

“This never happened,” he said, fastening his trousers with a sharp, angry pull at the laces. “And if you touch me like that again, I will kill you.”

“Here I thought you were just into breathplay,” Dorian replied sarcastically.

Cullen pulled on his shirt and then recoiled in disgust when he noticed the pale linen was smeared with blood from the sigils painted on the floor. His hands clenched in the material as if he might rip it off his body, but then he let it go and pressed his knuckles against his eyes, instead.

Dorian was perfectly aware that he _ought_ to be concerned about Cullen’s obvious distress. But he was hurting, and why shouldn’t everyone else hurt, too? Spread the misery around a bit. “Mm, yes, repression is _such_ a healthy coping mechanism. Perhaps while you’re at it you can pray to Andraste to forgive your sinful impulses.”

“They’re not _mine_ ,” he growled, still hiding behind his hands. Then he took a sharp quick breath, and another, and he was in motion again—jamming his feet into his boots and flying down the stairs. He wrenched open the Inquisitor’s door with such force that the bang of it hitting the wall echoed, and Cullen was gone.

Alone, Dorian wrapped his arms around himself as if his guts might fall out if he didn’t hold them in. He had weathered his fair share of rejections, of course, usually from the sort of men who wanted a quick romp behind the topiary at a garden party and then to pretend it never happened. But he’d never before fallen asleep believing that his soul mate had just healed his shattered psyche with incredibly intimate lovemaking—only to wake up to _this_.

The pain was too keen, and Dorian yearned to go back into the darkness. A hysterical laugh escaped his lips, because what precisely was the _fucking point_ of healing his mind only to promptly rip his heart out of his chest, like that lyrium-branded slave Magister Danarius used to show off.

There was the sound of someone coming up the stairs, and Dorian tensed for another fight, but no, the footsteps were too light to be Cullen. Ellana appeared instead, looking bleary-eyed and half awake with her brown hair a mess around the points of her ears; Dorian wondered where she'd slept.

“What happened? Cullen just stormed through the rotunda like he was late for battle.” (Slept on Solas's chaise, then.)

Dorian smoothed his mustache with thumb and forefinger, struggling to compose himself. “The good Commander woke up with some... morning-after regrets, shall we say.”

“Hm.” Ellana came over and perched on the side of the bed. “And you? How are you feeling?”

“I... well, the effects of my father's spell have been reversed, and that's more than I could reasonably expect. So.” He rubbed his unadorned hands together. Where were his rings? He supposed the healers must have taken them off, and now his hands felt naked without them.

Ellana was gazing at him with a pitying look. She reached out to rest a hand atop his own and opened her mouth, but he cut her off with a warning look.

“If you dare say ‘oh, Dorian, I'm so sorry’, all of Josephine’s careful interior decorating will have been in vain.”

“Look on the bright side,” she said with forced levity. “When he puts all the pieces together, he’s going to be _much_ madder at me than he is at you.”

A recruit arrived with breakfast for two, and Ellana was kind enough to pretend that the _two_ was meant to be Dorian and herself, as opposed to Dorian and his murderously angry one-night stand. It turned out to be a good thing she didn’t have much of an appetite, though, because Dorian was literally famished after consuming nothing of substance for the past week. She made him eat slowly, a mandate to which he responded with appropriate petulance, but it did help to keep the food down.

While he polished off the last butter-smeared bread roll, Ellana cradled a mostly empty mug of tea. “I… hope you can forgive me, for using blood magic on you without your permission. I would’ve rather gotten everyone’s consent, but you weren’t exactly in a state to give it.”

“My dear Inquisitor, I quite understand.” Though the topic of blood magic did bring some disquieting questions to mind. Throat suddenly tight, he said, “What— what became of my father?”

“The dungeon,” she answered with grim satisfaction. “Although he was surprisingly helpful with designing the reversal, if that’s any consolation.”

Dorian squeezed his eyes shut. “It is not.”

So Halward was alive, and here at Skyhold. Dorian hated the cool trickle of relief he felt upon hearing that his father hadn’t been killed in Redcliffe—shouldn’t he _want_ Halward irrevocably removed from his life, if not from the mortal coil? The pathetic little part of Dorian that craved his father’s acceptance was _still there_ , even after what he’d done.

“You look tired,” Ellana said. “Stay here and get some more rest.”

“I couldn’t possibly impose on you further,” he protested, despite the fact that he very much did not feel up for attempting to vacate the bed. He had no spare energy for activities other than digesting the large meal he’d just introduced into his body.

“Hah! You can, and you will. I’ll check in on you later.” She rose up onto her knees and planted a chaste kiss on his temple, then stole the empty breakfast tray off the bed and scampered from the room.

******

Ellana knew she’d have to face the music sooner or later, and better her advisors hear it from her than put it together for themselves. So she climbed the stairs up to the rookery and cleared her throat. “Leliana, I must speak with you.”

The spymaster stood with her hands clasped behind her back, and when she turned, her expression was as blank and piercing as a stare from one of her ravens. “Please tell me you didn’t,” she said, in a way that suggested she already knew.

“Before you get mad—everyone’s fine, it worked. No harm done.”

“No harm,” she echoed tonelessly, her head cocked to the side. “You stupid girl.”

Ellana felt she ought to say something like, _I’m the Inquisitor, you can’t talk to me that way_ , but Leliana was absolutely terrifying, and absolutely _could_. All she managed to say was, “Um.”

“Bad enough you used him for an interrogation, that was merely ill-advised, but this… you have no idea the harm you may have done.”

“Cullen agreed to help!” she protested, then quailed beneath the spymaster’s penetrating gaze. “I mean, sort of.”

Leliana just stared for so long that sweat prickled along Ellana’s spine. Eventually, she said, “If the commander of your army loses his mind in the middle of a critical campaign and gets us all killed, that will be on you, now.”

“What,” said Ellana.

The nightingale’s lips curved into a smile like a knife-cut. “You don’t even know what memory Cole had to suppress, do you?”

“Something bad…?” she ventured.

“It took Cullen seven years to recover, and now you’ve quite possibly retraumatized him while we’re in the middle of a war.” Leliana paused. “You must understand, I don’t violate his confidence by telling you this simply to make you feel badly—as Inquisitor, you need to know that your commander may be compromised.”

“I… um, I’ll talk to him,” Ellana said, groping wildly for some way to respond to this news.

“You won’t. Not today. I will handle it.”

The spymaster breezed past her, leaving Ellana standing in the rookery, feeling like a chastised child. “Shit,” she muttered under her breath.

******

Cullen spent a good half hour pacing in his loft and _fuming_ before he could rein in his temper enough to risk interacting with anyone. Then he grabbed his washing supplies and went down to the baths and scrubbed his skin raw, trying to remove the sense memory of the mage’s touch.

When that didn’t help, he tried the trick he used whenever the desire demon haunted his nightmares: _it wasn’t me_ , he told himself, _it happened to someone else_. But the memory of what the demon did to him at Kinloch filled him with revulsion; he didn’t want to think of it, so it was easy to push it away and pretend. Not so with Dorian. His mind would stray back to the previous afternoon, and suddenly his trousers were too tight, and it was infuriating.

The ritual was over, and he still wanted Dorian. That had never been part of the bargain—a bargain which he’d only agreed to after they’d violated his mind. Lavellan had created some kind of lasting connection that he couldn’t seem to shake, nor could he stand it. There was a world of difference between agreeing to sacrifice his attraction to the fairer sex, and agreeing to replace it with a single-minded obsession for one particular Tevinter mage. He hadn’t signed up for anything, and he _definitely_ hadn’t signed up for this.

Cullen didn’t quite trust himself around people at the moment, so he sent a runner to Rylen with a note telling the Knight-Captain to lead the training exercises for the day. Thanks to his occasionally debilitating lyrium headaches, this wasn’t the first time he’d sent such a request, so Rylen wouldn’t think anything was amiss. But even if it did raise questions, Cullen couldn’t go down to the training yard, because _Maker’s breath_ he’d forgotten his armor in the Inquisitor’s room, and if he went back to retrieve it, he really didn’t know if he’d be able to walk out again without causing grievous bodily harm.

Paperwork he could handle. Cullen would bury himself in paperwork and simply wait it out, ignoring his desire until the lingering effects of the spell faded. Surely the feeling would go away with time. It had to—the alternative was unthinkable. He planted himself in his desk chair and dove into the payroll records with a vengeance.

When the door leading to the main keep opened, he wasn’t altogether surprised to see that Leliana was the one who showed up hoping for an after-action report on the ritual. The spymaster had known him, however briefly, during the fall of the Circle, so she understood what he’d survived without them ever having discussed it, then or since. And in turn, Cullen had _quite_ a good idea how Leliana had felt about Neria Surana—right up until the moment the Hero of Ferelden sacrificed herself to end the Blight, and likely for a long time after—though again, he’d never broached the subject.

They really did have so much to not talk about together.

“Cullen, I…” Leliana sucked in a breath, allowing herself to appear shaken, since it was only the two of them. “I should have put a stop to it as soon as I suspected they would try something underhanded. Please believe me when I say that _I_ would not have chosen to risk you for him.”

“Well,” he said. “Nice to know you consider me of value to the Inquisition.” He wasn’t in the mood to pretend the spymaster made such decisions based on personal sentiment.

A flicker of unhappiness sparked in her eyes, then vanished. “Of course you are valued here. Whatever else you may doubt, never doubt _that_.”

“I assume you also came to see for yourself that I’m not a gibbering wreck.” He held out his hands, as if to put himself on display. “No gibbering here. I can still speak in whole sentences and everything.”

Leliana clasped her hands behind her back. “And you’ll tell me, if you feel yourself slipping?”

Cullen snorted.

“Cassandra, then.”

“I won’t do you the disservice of acting shocked that you already know about the arrangement I have with Cassandra.”

Leliana nodded once, an acknowledgement, and then turned to go. But she paused in the doorway and looked back, something frail and uncertain flitting across her face ever so briefly. “I do care, you know.”

He sighed. “But all that matters is we’re stopping the end of the world. Yes, I _do_ know.” And from previous experience Leliana, more than any of the rest of them, understood exactly what that meant—and what they might have to sacrifice to achieve it.

So Cullen did his best to set aside his rage, his betrayal, his revulsion. He couldn’t afford to fall apart over this, not with his duties piling up every day. His troops were no longer green—laying siege to Adamant had tested their mettle—but the challenge of running an army only grew as their ranks swelled. And besides, Cullen had been broken in _much_ worse ways before. What was one more unhealable wound, on top of all the others? He would learn to carry this, too. He would adjust.

He soon discovered, though, that _wound_ was not an apt metaphor; this time there was less pain and infinitely more indignity. After a full evening of attempting to catch up on paperwork while trying to ignore a steadily growing hunger for Dorian’s touch, Cullen had to admit that he was rock hard and reading the same missive over again for the fifth time, still not absorbing any of the words. He threw the paper down, disgusted with himself, and climbed the ladder into his loft. The motion was a torment for his straining cock, and he stripped with more than military efficiency to lie naked on his bed and take the matter in hand.

He started with slow strokes, promising himself that he _would not_ wank to the memory of He Who Shall Not Be Named. Cullen tried, experimentally, to turn his thoughts back to women he’d fantasized about in the past; the mental image of breasts and hips didn’t turn him off, exactly, but neither did it do much of anything for his state of arousal, certainly not like it had before. He huffed out a sigh. It wasn’t an entirely unexpected result. He would think of other men, then, men who weren’t _him_ —Cullen must have known some reasonably attractive men at some point, mustn’t he? For the Maker’s sake, he’d lived in templar barracks most of his life; it was practically inevitable that he’d walked in on a variety of carnal activities between men over the years.

There was, um… well, Knight-Captain Rylen had garnered a lot of attention back in Kirkwall from men and women alike, with that Starkhaven brogue of his. (Dorian had a lovely accent.) He’d overheard some recruits swooning over Ser Barris’s cheekbones and piercing eyes. (But really, could they compare to Dorian’s?) And there was a great deal of gossip about the Iron Bull’s endowment. (Inhumanly massive didn’t actually seem appealing, not when someone else fit so perfectly…)

Cullen’s mind kept snapping back to Dorian—Dorian’s deft hands exploring his body, Dorian’s wicked tongue in his mouth, Dorian’s rigid cock filling him. He slicked the fingers of his other hand with saliva and worked them into his hole, imagining it was _Dorian_ , and he came so hard he saw stars.

Then he cleaned himself up, buried his face in his pillow, and wept in shame.

******

For the rest of the day, Dorian napped and ate and napped some more, eventually relinquishing the Inquisitor’s chambers and moving the proceedings to his own bed. Amazing how taxing it was, getting one’s mind glued back together.

He did his absolute best not to hear the words _utterly repulsive_ echoing over and over in his mind, and he also did his absolute best not to develop a raging hard-on whenever he thought of Cullen. But Dorian was not a strong man, and if the recruit who delivered his dinner _happened_ to catch him sobbing into the crook of one elbow while jerking off with the other hand… well. It was that sort of day.

Dorian’s sense of dignity was a fickle creature who often abandoned him when it came to carnal matters. Honestly, it was almost worse that the poor recruit had seen him with a week’s worth of stubble and his hair unkempt.

In the morning, Dorian resolved to pull himself together and learn as much as he could about what happened during the ritual. He bathed, he shaved, he waxed his mustache, he lined his eyes with kohl, he donned a fabulous outfit and flashy jewelry—and to his relief, he felt very much like himself again. Though given how he’d come out the other side of not one but two mind-altering blood spells, would he necessarily be aware of the ways in which he was no longer the same? It was a deeply disconcerting thought.

He shook himself. He was Dorian fucking Pavus, and he was in control, and he would _not_ be plagued by anxious uncertainty. Knowledge was power, so he would arm himself with understanding, and that would ease his fears.

He went straight to the first floor of the rotunda, where Solas was reading a book at his desk, and interrupted. “I have questions.”

Solas blinked up at him impassively. “You might ask them of the Inquisitor.”

“Yes, well, some of them are going to be rather uncomfortable questions, and I don’t want Ellana to get the impression I’m ungrateful.”

“And yet, no show of gratitude for me?”

Dorian quirked an eyebrow. They had never much gotten along; Solas harbored a seething resentment for Tevinters in general, and Dorian, sensing this, had done his level best to rile the elf at every opportunity. “Come now, Solas, let’s not pretend you helped her for my benefit.”

“But I would so miss the constant disruption of you ejecting unwanted books over the balcony railing into my work space.” Solas’s deadpan delivery elevated sarcasm to an artform (and though Dorian would never admit it, he was ever so slightly jealous of this).

“Where did you get the blood?” he blurted out, before he could lose his nerve. His father had sacrificed—no, the word was _murdered_ —a blood slave to get enough power for the original ritual, and he was ashamed he hadn’t even thought to question it yesterday.

“The Inquisitor herself provided some, as well as Magister Pavus and the Iron Bull.”

Dorian stared for a moment, trying to wrap his mind around the idea of a magister using his own blood instead of a slave’s. And _Bull_? Bleeding to fuel magic, which he hated? “I don’t know whether to be more shocked about the Tevinter or the Qunari.”

“I can only assume your father felt a certain degree of guilt. And as for the Iron Bull, his large body mass allows for a larger volume of blood to be taken safely.”

“None of yours, then?” Dorian quipped.

The corners of his mouth turned down, and something sharp flashed in his eyes, as if he were revolted and offended at the idea of his blood being used to save some Tevinter cockroach—but he quickly smoothed the expression away, and simply said, “No, not mine.”

Even Dorian could recognize that this was likely not the best time to attempt further provocation, so instead he moved on to his next query. “The… connection… forged between myself and Cullen, I wasn’t hallucinating that part, was I?”

Now Solas looked faintly amused. “The bond was quite real.”

“And quite permanent? Wait, don’t—don’t answer that.” Dorian rubbed his forehead. He had a strong sense that Cullen was the mortar holding the fractured pieces of his mind together, and he didn’t need Solas to say it—he already knew his feelings for Cullen were not going away. Probably ever.

How terribly inconvenient.

“The original ritual stripped your mind of aspects that were integral to your identity, and the Commander purchased back those aspects, using his own mind as currency. A fascinating bit of magic. And,” Solas added clinically, “unavoidably intimate.”

There was a tense pause. They both knew this was the part of the conversation where Dorian was supposed to ask how Cullen had been persuaded to do such a thing, and apparently the elf was not inclined to relieve Dorian of the necessity of voicing the question. The moment stretched, Dorian not asking and Solas not offering.

“Vishante kaffas,” Dorian muttered into the silence. He had a bothersome suspicion that if he _wanted_ to draw parallels between what Halward had done to him and what Ellana must have done to Cullen, he would likely succeed in seeing some unfortunate similarities there. Her motives were inarguably better, of course, but her methods were… well, best not to dwell on it.

Instead, he absconded with Ellana’s research notes, which had ended up on Solas’s desk after her abrupt departure from her own chambers. The elf made no move to stop him, simply turning his attention back to his book with a small, beleaguered sigh, as if Dorian were a tiresome child he had no desire to be put in charge of minding.

Up in the library, Dorian spread the notes out on a table and pored over them, determined to piece together an understanding of how the ritual worked. To his chagrin, a magical education in Tevinter had gifted him with a better grasp of the rudiments of blood magic than the average Dalish First, so it didn’t take him long to sort out the big picture. He did find some lingering points which could use clarification, and he composed a list of specific queries he’d like to ask his father, if he ever mustered the courage to speak with the man again (which was a problem he firmly rejected dealing with for now). But overall, he finished his examination of her research with what he suspected was a better understanding than Ellana herself had possessed when she’d performed the ritual.

He learned several exceedingly curious things. Firstly, and of significant interest to Dorian, was the fact that Cullen’s attraction to men had _not_ evaporated in the sober light of morning, nor would it, not ever. The Commander also apparently had a brand-new rebellious streak, courtesy of needing to undo the obedience Halward had forced on his son. And perhaps most curious: Ellana had accidentally laid out the glyphs in such a way that these two changes were not independent of each other.

It appeared the Commander’s submissive tendencies, rather than disappearing entirely, had been redirected into the bedroom.

If Dorian were a better man in a better mood, he might have brought this revelation to Cullen as a peace offering. But the thoroughness of Cullen’s rejection still ached like a mortal wound, and he was feeling much more inclined toward delicious revenge than he was toward civil discourse. Before all the blood magic happened, he’d had a plan: get Cullen alone and provoke a reaction. The plan was still applicable—with a few modifications, since the reaction he wanted now was something quite different.

Dorian was not repulsive. He was, in point of fact, an exquisitely desirable sexual partner… and he would _make Cullen admit it_.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dorian has a plan. (It’s… not a *good* plan.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW, and dub-con tag still in effect.
> 
> Also, I’ve stopped pretending this is only going to be five chapters, because my outline is up to at least eight now. Whoops! This was supposed to be short.

“Commander, ser, where do you want it?”

Cullen looked up from his desk. He recognized the young woman as one of Leliana’s handpicked “scouts” (read: spies), though the burlap sack she was carrying over one shoulder was a mystery to him. She seemed to think he was expecting the delivery, though, so he waved his quill at her vaguely. “Oh, anywhere is fine.”

The sack gave a conspicuous _clank_ when she set it down. Ah—his armor, then, retrieved for him from the Inquisitor’s chambers.

Cullen was perfectly aware he was being managed, and while he did not in general appreciate Leliana treating him like a can of gaatlok that might explode at the slightest provocation, he had to admit, in this case, her concern was warranted. Best to avoid the possibility of a tense run-in with Lavellan or—worse—Dorian.

The weight of armor on his body was closely tied in his mind to Kirkwall and Kinloch, and he didn’t dare risk it so soon after a vivid flashback, not even the half-plate he’d taken to wearing when he quit lyrium. Perhaps in the afternoon he’d rally the strength to try wearing it; he could ask Cassandra to spar for a bit, and that would help refocus his mind. For now, he carried the sack up to his loft and hung the armor properly on its stand.

So he wasn’t nearly as well protected as he would have liked when Dorian Pavus—infuriating provocateur and object of his desire—let himself in without knocking.

Dorian was wearing one of those ridiculously impractical Tevinter get-ups, the outer robe framing his jaw in a high collar and cascading down his lithe body in precisely arranged folds. His forearms were wrapped wrist to elbow but his shoulders were bare. Dorian looked radiant, and he obviously knew it, and it flooded Cullen with helpless lust. With a flick of his wrist, the Vint locked all three doors to the office, and Cullen’s pulse sped up. Because the casual display of magic made him nervous, obviously, he told himself. Not _at all_ because he was excited to see the mage stalking over to him like a hungry wildcat.

“Lord Pavus,” Cullen spat out with as much venom as he could muster while trying very hard not to remember Dorian’s fingers inside him, Dorian’s voice murmuring in his ear, _do you want more?_ Cullen pushed his chair back from his desk. He wanted to lunge out of his seat and punch the smirk off the mage’s face, or perhaps simply flee the room… but he also really, _really_ wanted more.

“No need to be so formal.” Dorian strolled around to Cullen’s side of the desk as if he’d been welcomed over.

“What are you doing,” Cullen said, more a warning than a question.

The mage smiled like the cat who stole the cream. “Whatever I like.”

With no warning, his hand shot out, fingers weaving into Cullen’s hair and yanking. Cullen’s head jerked back with the force of that delicious pull and his mouth fell open, breath hitching with an instant shot of arousal. Dorian leaned over him to nip at his lower lip and thrust his tongue into his mouth. Cullen tried not to respond—surely, some part of his brain must have tried not to respond, because he knew it was not real, not _him_ , only the blood magic at work.

But for months since going off lyrium, his body had rewarded him with a cornucopia of misery: dull aches and piercing pains and nausea and stiffness. This pleasure was a shock to his system. Dorian loosened the laces at the collar of Cullen’s tunic and snuck his clever fingers down beneath. He brushed his nails across a nipple and then pinched it hard, and Cullen’s prick twitched in his trousers, already rousing.

“Don’t…” Cullen moaned.

“Don’t what—don’t touch you? Don’t stop?” Dorian teased. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Yes, _both_ ,” Cullen answered, anguished by his conflicting impulses.

“Not good enough,” Dorian said crisply. “I will stop when I hear a definite, unequivocal ‘no’ out of you, and not before.”

Dorian swept open the skirt of his robe and threw a leg across the chair, and suddenly Cullen found himself with a lapful of gorgeous demanding mage, his hips bucking up involuntarily.

“Yes, I can tell how terribly unattractive you find me.” Dorian smirked, grinding down against Cullen’s rapidly hardening cock. The mage grabbed Cullen’s head in both hands, thumbs on his cheeks, fingers in his hair at the base of his skull, and he locked their gazes together in a heated stare. “Admit it, you want this.”

Cullen could only stare back, mesmerized by the intensity in those gray eyes, as if Dorian were a Rivaini snake charmer and Cullen himself the snake.

“Beg me for it, Cullen,” he said, rolling his hips in a torturous rhythm.

Cullen sucked in a ragged breath. “I won’t.”

The mage tsked. “So stubborn.”

He stood from the chair and pulled Cullen up with him, then stripped off Cullen’s tunic. Dorian’s hot mouth seemed to be everywhere at once, kissing and sucking and biting, and it felt deliriously good. The small voice in the back of his mind saying, _stop this, just push him away_ was shrinking smaller and smaller.

Dorian nipped the sensitive skin below his ear and purred, “Tell me what you need.”

Cullen clamped his jaw shut and shook his head. If he couldn’t make himself walk away, he could at least resist being an enthusiastic participant. This did not seem to put off the mage, though.

“Determined to make this a challenge for me, yes? Well, Commander, challenge accepted.” Dorian cleared the papers from the desk with a sweep of his arm, bent Cullen over it, and pinned him down with a hand between his shoulder blades. Cullen could have easily broken out of his hold, or simply refused to let the mage manhandle him thus in the first place, but… he didn’t.

“Stay,” Dorian ordered, and the command sent a shiver of desire through him. He shouldn’t want this, he _knew_ he shouldn’t want this, yet he was breathless with anticipation. Dorian loosened the laces and yanked Cullen’s trousers and smalls down to his ankles.

Cullen heard the slap before the stinging pain registered in his ass cheek. Then Dorian spanked him again _hard_ in the same spot, and he let out an undignified yelp.

The mage chuckled. “Surely you know that naughty little Chantry boys who refuse to ask for what they need will be punished.”

Cullen made a noise in his throat that most assuredly was _not_ a whine, because that would be unbecoming for a man of his station. Another slap, and he couldn’t help writhing, even as the pain somehow crossed over into pleasure—it was sharp and finite and completely unlike the sort of pain the lyrium gave him. With each hit, Dorian’s hand seemed to be grounding him here in this moment, obliterating the past, and the mage proceeded to spank Cullen until there were hot tears pooling in the corners of his eyes and his cock was weeping precome on the floor.

Dorian’s hands soothed over the heated, tender skin, and he murmured almost too quiet to hear, “Look at you. So lovely.”

Then he pressed his slicked thumbs inside Cullen, working him open, making him gape, and in this position _everything_ must be on display for the mage to see, and it should’ve been mortifying but instead it turned him on _so much_. Dorian hummed, sounding pleased, then lined up his cock and slammed into him in one swift stroke that pushed a strangled cry from Cullen’s throat.

Oh yes, _yes_ , this is what he needed: Dorian moving inside him, filling all his secret empty places with pleasure. It felt _so good_ to be given something that wasn’t misery.

“Say it, Cullen, tell me how much you love getting fucked up the ass by a…”—Dorian gave a punishing thrust to punctuate each word—“Filthy. Repulsive. Conniving. Mage.”

Cullen felt like Dorian was pounding the breath right out of his lungs. It was too much, too intense, and he wanted to drown in that sensation forever because it blotted out everything else like an overturned inkwell. Even without a hand on his cock, he was quickly climbing toward release.

Dorian suddenly stopped thrusting, and Cullen choked on a desperate, frustrated groan as the mage clamped his fingers tight around the base of Cullen’s hardness. “I’m warning you: say it or I will walk out right now and leave you here wanting.”

Cullen squirmed, struggling to rock himself back onto Dorian, the last shreds of his precarious self-control melting away. Words bubbled up and escaped before he could think to hold them in. “Oh, please, please Dorian, fuck me, I love it, I need it…”

“There’s my good boy…” His voice changed instantly to velvet, and he stroked his other hand down Cullen’s spine. The touch sent a delicious shudder through him, and _oh_ how his sex-addled mind basked in that praise, needing Dorian's approval almost more than he needed release.

The mage’s hand moved to grip his shoulder, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, and he started thrusting deep and steady again. The punishing hold at the base of his cock eased, and Dorian’s touch slid up and down his shaft almost _too_ gently, now, not quite enough pressure to bring him to release. He needed more, he wanted to thrust into Dorian’s fist, the peak had never seemed so close and yet so far, but Dorian kept working him up and up…

Just when he didn’t think he could bear another moment of his own frantic climbing need, Dorian pumped his hand tight and fast around Cullen’s cock and leaned down to purr in his ear, “Come for me, Cullen.”

The orgasm hit him like a tidal wave, and he drowned in overwhelming pleasure that kept pulsing through him as Dorian milked his cock and came inside him at the same time. He shouted words that might have been _I won’t!_ —because the last time he climaxed like that, a desire demon had wanted something in return.

His legs shook, the desk the only thing holding him up now. Like a prayer, he whispered against the wood, “I won’t, I won’t, I won’t.”

Dorian’s hand was in his hair, gentling him like a spooked horse. “Shhh, I’ve got you. You did so well.” And it shouldn’t have helped, but the approval sank down deep inside him, nourishing a part of Cullen that he’d been trying so hard to starve.

Maybe, just this once, he could accept the praise without guilt. Dorian wasn’t Meredith. This _well done_ would not be followed by a dubious reward, like a higher lyrium dose or the “honor” of wielding the Tranquility brand. He could simply _feel good_ without having to turn it over in his mind, examining it for hidden traps.

After a minute of just breathing together, Dorian pulled out with a soft hiss, and Cullen began to regain his senses.

The mage leaned away, took out a handkerchief and cleaned up before tucking himself back into his robes. “There, now that wasn’t so hard to admit, was it?” He seemed satisfied—smug, even, as if he’d won an argument.

Cullen pushed off the desk and scrambled to pull up his trousers, the inevitable humiliation arriving like a bucket of cold water to the face. What was _wrong_ with him? Having sex on his desk in the middle of the day was hardly conduct befitting the commander of an army.

Dorian shifted his weight as if to lean in for a kiss, but Cullen staggered past him, feeling cornered and panicky and confused, and unsteady on his feet. Everything he had momentarily forgotten about in the heat of the encounter came welling back up to the surface: the crushing weight of his responsibility, the ache in his joints from lyrium withdrawal, the sickening dread he felt when he remembered that he was permanently tainted by blood magic.

A tentative hand touched his shoulder, and there was uncertainty in Dorian’s voice when he said, “Cullen?”

“Get out,” Cullen said hoarsely, as he ground the heels of his palms against his eyes.

“Please, amatus, let me—”

“Get out, get out, GET OUT!”

“That... does indeed seem to be an unequivocal ‘no’.” Dorian sounded shaken, and all Cullen could think was, _good_. “I shall leave you to it, then.”

Hands still pressed to his eyes, a part of him wanted to ask, _leave me to what, exactly?_

But the door clicked shut behind the mage before he could rally the words. Truth be told, if Cullen was going to slowly lose his mind, he _would_ rather do it in private.

******

Dorian had no use for false modesty, so he was quite certain he’d delivered one of the best orgasms of Cullen’s sad, pathetic life, but instead of being allowed to hold Cullen while he came down from that peak, he’d been unceremoniously ejected from the office. It was maddening, to have such a flawlessly executed plan blow up in his face at the last second.

He took a deep breath as he walked back to his nook in the library. This was fine, this was salvageable. Conditional love was the only kind Dorian had ever known, and so he understood precisely how this worked: all he had to do was figure out what the Commander’s conditions were.

His parents had loved him when he performed brilliantly on examinations and when he crushed his rivals (or, rather, the children of their rivals) in humiliating social and/or magical defeats that brought lasting shame upon their houses. Dorian doubted Cullen would be particularly impressed by academic excellence or the ruination of anyone’s reputations, so his primary skill-sets weren’t much help. Slaughtering enemies was more Cullen’s style, but Dorian had been laying waste to Red Templars and Venatori for _weeks_ before the blood ritual, and it hadn’t seemed to warm the Commander to him.

Clearly fantastic sex was not the key he’d hoped it would be, either.

Dorian reclined in his velvet reading chair and rubbed at the lingering soreness in his neck. He’d cast a handy little spell to make the bruising fade, but that cosmetic repair was about the extent of his healing ability, and a ghost of the initial discomfort remained. Pain wasn't typically his thing, but in this case he rather liked the reminder: he hadn’t imagined any of it, it had all really happened.

He should take his partial victory and be content. The smoldering revenge sex had proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that Cullen was still very much attracted to him, and immediate post-coital rejection was hardly a novel experience for Dorian. If you suck someone off behind the curtains at their own engagement party, you certainly don’t expect them to stick around for cuddles after (not that Dorian had done this on no less than three occasions…). But everything was different with Cullen. In the moment after they both came, Dorian thought, _he’s mine now_ , and a nebulous image of the future began to take shape in his mind—a future in which he would be allowed to take care of Cullen, and Cullen would want him for more than sex, and perhaps eventually admit that the soul bond went both ways…

 _Fasta vass_ , he didn’t even know how men in the south went about romancing each other under normal circumstances, since men in Tevinter simply didn’t. What was he to do, pin an orchid to that garish fur rug Cullen wore about his shoulders? What were the Commander’s _conditions_? If this were a research project, he’d gather background information, but the people who knew Cullen best would be unlikely to share with Dorian. He’d have to start with reading _Tale of the Champion_ —at least the sections which mentioned the Knight-Captain—and then interrogate Varric for more.

Perhaps he could publish the results of his study under a catchy title: _How to Make Cantankerous Ex-Templars Love You Back, a Thesis by Dorian Pavus._

Yes, he would distract himself from the urge to sulk by taking a proactive approach to solving the problem. The library had a copy of Varric’s book, so Dorian sprawled in his chair with the pages tilted toward the light from the window, and he began reading.

Fleeing for their lives, blah blah darkspawn horde, blah blah rescued by a dragon—wait, what?—then Kirkwall’s a shithole full of refugees, indentured for a year, blah… when was Varric going to get to the relevant parts? Really, very inconsiderate of him to make Dorian skim through all these details about Hawke.

Hawke met an elf mage, met a human mage, met a pirate, met a— _hold on_ , an elf with lyrium brands carved into his skin? Well, that certainly explained why Danarius stopped showing off his Little Wolf at parties; Dorian had heard the magister had “died while traveling abroad” a few years back, and now he had a sneaking suspicion what that meant.

The research proved a most satisfactory diversion from the disappointment of his backfired plan. Dorian was just getting to the part where a certain blond Templar was overzealously questioning an errant recruit on the Storm Coast when a runner interrupted him with a note. It read: _War Room mtg 10min. We all need to clear the air. –Inq_

“Vishante kaffas, Ellana,” he muttered. “Not now.”

Dorian didn’t need time magic to predict this was not going to end well.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dorian and Cullen have some unfortunate revelations.

Dorian paced the width of the War Room. “This is a terrible idea. We ought to delay.”

Ellana was arranging a new set of research notes into neat piles atop the massive table. “We can’t put this off, the others are already getting curious.”

He drew a deep, steadying breath. “Inquisitor, I truly believe this conversation would be better received by certain parties at a later date.”

“Why?”

 _Because a couple hours ago I bent the Commander over his desk and gave him a thorough ploughing,_ Dorian didn’t say. “Oh, you know. _Reasons_.”

Solas, who was doing that lurking-on-the-margins-of-the-conversation thing he was so good at, let out a barely audible snort. The elf couldn’t possibly know, could he? Dorian’s face heated a little. And _oh perfect_ , now Leliana was peering at him with mild curiosity from beneath her purple cowl, and if he didn’t get his reactions under control she would definitely arrive at some conclusions. At least Josephine was absent from the proceedings; Dorian rather liked the ambassador, and would prefer not to lose her good opinion of him.

“Like it or not,” Ellana was saying, “we all have to decide how to proceed from here. I know things may be difficult for you, because of how I… went about the reversal…”

Oh, bless her little elvhen heart. “No, dear Inquisitor,” he cut her off. “It’s more complicated than that.”

Dorian was rescued from the necessity of elaborating when the Commander arrived at the War Room with Cassandra in tow. Both of them were dusty in a way that suggested they’d been whaling on each other in the practice yard when the summons came, but even if the Seeker’s inclusion was happenstance, it made Dorian immediately wary that Cullen had brought backup. Ellana could cast a good barrier, sure, but she was much too tiny to hide behind.

Because Dorian was a master of the preemptive strike, he said, “Commander, would you care for a seat?”

The question wouldn’t make sense to anyone else, since they were all standing, but Cullen obviously understood the reference to his tender backside—he flushed bright red, and said to Cassandra, “I’m going to kill him now.”

It wasn’t clear from the grim twist of Cassandra’s mouth exactly how much the Seeker had been told, but enough that she didn’t protest.

“There will be no murder,” Ellana declared, exasperated. “Take your hand off your sword hilt, Cullen. Look, everyone, I recognize that there are some… _elevated_ emotions still about what happened, but we at least need to come to a consensus about what to tell the others. So far I’ve been cagey with the details of Dorian’s recovery, but I’d like your permission to brief the rest of the Inner Circle on what happened.”

Dorian thought _what happened_ was rather a squirrelly way of saying, _that time I used blood magic on the commander of my army,_ but he kept his mouth shut.

Cullen turned an implacable, unblinking stare upon the Inquisitor, though his voice came out laced with furious disbelief. “You honestly want to tell the rest of the Inner Circle that you _stole my memories_ to make me susceptible to your manipulations, and that I fell for it? What will that accomplish, aside from making one of us look untrustworthy and the other incompetent?”

Dorian shifted his weight, ill at ease. There was the answer to that question he’d been so studiously avoiding: Cullen had only saved him because he’d been tricked into doing it. The insatiably curious part of him wondered which memories those might be, but he pushed the thought aside to consider at a less inappropriate time.

“No one would question your competence,” Ellana was saying, and then swallowed thickly, as if she had a lump in her throat. “And… it would be the truth.”

Cullen’s gaze landed on Dorian with all the heat of a fireball, his whiskey-colored eyes boiling with… lust? Hatred? Dorian couldn’t be sure, but another flush crept up Cullen’s neck to refresh the first one, and the Commander said, “The less they know of it the better.”

Leliana’s voice was an odd mix of musical and emotionless. “I must concur. While honesty might assuage your guilt, Inquisitor, it would weaken your standing among the very people you rely upon to keep you alive in the field.”

“They’re not Inquisition assets, they’re our _friends_ ,” Ellana huffed.

Cullen’s jaw clenched so tight that a muscle visibly jumped. “I do not consent to having all your ‘friends’ gawk at my shame, Lavellan. In this, at the very least, you can respect my wishes.”

Ellana stared at him, eyes wide and wounded. “You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

Cullen snorted.

The tension in the room drew out Dorian’s sarcasm like a leech sucking blood. “I, for one, was _so_ looking forward to the entirety of Skyhold knowing my father would rather see me dead than bent. I mean, if we’re going to publicly humiliate everyone involved, best do it properly.”

“Fine! Fine.” Ellana’s lips pinched unhappily. “If you both want it kept quiet, that’s what we’ll do.”

Cassandra, who wore an expression of thinly veiled disgust, said, “Will that be all, Inquisitor?”

“No, actually, I have a research update. I’ve been looking into something you said during the ritual, Cullen, that you felt like you would die if—”

He held up a hand to stop her there and growled, “I remember.”

“Yes, well, I just wanted to assure you that after careful evaluation, I’m quite confident that it was never a risk. You might have felt, you know, _like that_ , but at no point were you in any physical danger. I’m certain of it.” Ellana tapped her pile of research notes with satisfaction, as if she expected this news to settle the matter—which Dorian considered to be almost delusionally optimistic. He pinched the bridge of his nose.

Cullen blinked at her once, slowly, something cold and terrible building in his gaze. “Oh, do you feel absolved, then?” The words dripped with venom. “Have you eased your conscience? You’ve decided it was fine to force me into bed with someone who has been nothing but a thorn in my side for months, because at least I was never in mortal peril?!”

The word _force_ gave Dorian an awful, twisting sensation in his gut, and he folded his arms defensively. “You’re a grown man, Cullen, you can say ‘no’.”

Cullen’s voice turned deadly quiet. “Can I, though?”

A horrifying clarity settled over Dorian. He’d been so wrapped up in his own hurt, his own wants, that he hadn’t stopped long enough to earnestly examine the situation. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t been the one to cast the spell, nor even had a vote in whether the ritual was performed. The fact was, Cullen—when he was thinking clearly—wanted none of it. Which meant Dorian had used blood magic to rape the man he loved.

He was exactly like his father.

A hot flash of intense nausea swept through him, and he pressed his closed fist against his lips. It would be very unbecoming to turn around and puke in the corner of the War Room. He focused back on the conversation, if only to give himself a distraction while trying to ignore the urge to be sick.

Cassandra was mid-rant, waving a fistful of the Inquisitor’s new research notes in her face. “This is not what it means to take responsibility for your actions. What will you do to make it right?”

Demonstrating what Dorian considered to be an extraordinary lack of self-preservation, Solas raised an eyebrow and said, “Seeker, surely you aren’t proposing we perform another blood ritual to undo the undoing? That would become rather circular, don’t you think?”

“And you!” Cassandra rounded on Solas now. “You are supposed to be guiding her! Why in the Maker’s name would you encourage such recklessness?”

“Ah, the Seeker turns her hawk-like gaze to me.” Solas regarded her with one of those blank expressions of his that somehow managed to convey all the superiority of a smirk without actually moving a muscle. “I’ve never before attempted to utilize the Fade for such a purpose, and it was a most informative experiment.”

An incensed growl rumbled in her throat. “Do your allies mean nothing to you? Do you care about anything in the world beyond the Fade?”

“Oh no, you have me pinned, Cassandra, penetrating deep into my most secret desires. Only… not.”

“Hold on,” Ellana attempted to mediate, “let’s all take a breath…”

Cassandra ignored her. “You’ll want to watch that attitude, Solas.”

“Why? Do you have another expert on the Fade hiding around here?”

Dorian saw it coming, though there was no time to deliberate on whether he felt inclined to intercede. In a flash, Cassandra twisted from the hip and decked Solas right in the face.

“Whoa!” Ellana leapt forward and got between them, both hands on the Seeker’s cuirass, as if she could hold her back. Leliana, who definitely _could_ have diffused the situation in time, still didn’t move from where she stood.

“How entirely expected,” Solas sneered, raising a hand to his no-doubt throbbing cheek. “By your leave, Inquisitor.” He stormed out the door.

Cassandra was still fumingly mad. Dorian surreptitiously backed against the wall, because the Seeker looked like she was seriously considering table-flipping the War Table, and he had zero desire to end up crushed beneath three hundred pounds of carved wood. (He observed his own reaction with disgust—like a properly vile Tevinter mage, self-preservation came above all else.)

Ellana turned to him and groused, “You’re no help.”

“This situation certainly seems to merit someone hitting something, and as long as _I’m_ not the one taking a fist to the face, I really can’t complain.” The flippant response was a reflex, nothing but a mask to hide behind while he screamed on the inside, because after all Cullen was right: he _was_ repulsive.

Hands on hips, Ellana tried for stern. “Seeker, if you cannot refrain from punching people, I must ask that you remove yourself from these proceedings until you’ve cooled off.”

Cassandra shot her a look of wide-eyed outrage. “Inquisitor, it is not _I_ who—”

“Consider it an order, of you must.” She raised her chin.

“Ugh!” Cassandra strode out and slammed the door closed behind her, as if she and Solas were in some sort of dramatic-exit contest.

“Well!” Dorian said, falsely chipper. “That was exciting, no?”

Cullen just looked oddly exhausted by the whole affair. The fight had gone out of him, which was somehow much more frightening than the spitting fury of a few minutes ago.

“Commander, I…” Ellana floundered, her eyes flicking nervously to Leliana. The spymaster moved her hands to rest on her hips, and Dorian wondered exactly how fucked they were, and would they feel the knives between their ribs or would Leliana give them instant, merciful deaths? Calling upon some inner wellspring of resolve, Ellana managed to go on. “I owe you a most profound apology. I was distraught, and I exercised poor judgement, and you’ve paid the price for it.”

“I suppose,” Cullen said, his voice dull and distant, “when being the Vint’s sex toy becomes unbearable… at least I’ll be able to kill myself this time.”

“Sex toy?” Ellana echoed in shock, but a different phrase had caught like a fishhook in Dorian’s mind: “What do you mean, _this time_?”

He scrubbed at his face with one hand. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Cullen.” Dorian rounded the War Table and closed the distance between them. “Please tell me.”

When the silence stretched too long, he grabbed Cullen’s arm and gave him a shake, but the other man shrugged him off. “It’s—it’s not relevant.”

“Of course it’s relevant!” Dorian huffed. “ _You_ brought it up!” Was it possible that Cullen submitted not because of a new-found kink, but because he had a history of abuse? He’d seemed quite responsive earlier, but what if he was merely re-enacting his trauma? Oh, Dorian was the _scum of Thedas_ , and this terrible mistake was a stain he would never wash off.

Knowing he’d hurt the one person he most wanted to protect was an unbearable ache inside him, like a walking bomb spell had been cast into his chest. He quite forgot they weren’t alone, and reached tentatively for Cullen’s face. “ _Please_ , amatus, talk to me.”

Cullen shrank from his touch as if Dorian’s fingertips had burned him, and Dorian froze, then forced his hand to drop to his side. He remembered Ellana and the spymaster were watching this whole display, and felt suddenly nervous and exposed. But he made himself wait; he would take his cue from Cullen, that much at least he could manage to do right.

Cullen’s gaze went glassy and unfocused for a long moment, then he squeezed his eyes shut and muttered to himself, “It wasn’t me, it happened to someone else.”

Dorian and Ellana exchanged a look; this behavior was… disquieting. He tried glancing at Leliana for guidance, but she might as well have been a statue for all the hints her non-expression gave away. Cullen took three sharp, quick breaths, as if grounding himself with the sensation of air in his lungs, and then turned and left, his steady strides just barely slow enough to avoid being characterized as _fleeing_.

Ellana said, “What are you waiting for? Go after him!”

Dorian tried to speak, but had to clear his throat roughly before the words would come out. “I believe it might be best if I avoid the Commander from now on.” He brought his hands together anxiously, rubbing his right thumb over the rings on his left hand. “Spymaster, might I have a word alone with the Inquisitor?”

Leliana nodded her head in a somewhat mocking bow. “Until later, Inquisitor.”

Once the nightingale had slipped out, he sighed. “Ellana… you are my dear friend, and I am certainly glad to be alive, but you violated his mind, and then I took advantage of that. Nothing good can come of this.”

“Dorian…” she mimicked his exasperated tone. “You were still in the process of returning from severe psychic damage, you were no more in control than he was. _I_ should have put some kind of protection in place—I had no idea it would get so out of hand so quickly.”

He wanted to yell in her face, lay all the blame at her feet, stoke the fires of righteous indignation and let them consume his guilt. It was Ellana’s ill-conceived meddling in Pavus family affairs that had gotten them into this situation, after all. But the moment Dorian had decided to take advantage of the magic’s influence, he’d made himself culpable. As calmly as he could manage, he said, “I’m not referring to the ritual.”

It took Ellana a moment to catch his meaning. “You had sex with him again?”

Dorian blanched. “The spell has… lasting effects. For both of us.”

“And I take it one of you is enjoying these effects more than the other.”

“Not anymore,” he said, pained, barely above a whisper.

“Oh, Dorian.”

“Right, well!” He forced brightness into his tone. “I’m off to steal some wine from Josie’s stash, and drink myself blind. Wish me luck!”

“Wait, we should—” Ellana began, but he never found out what they _should_ , because he was already out the door and down the rubble-strewn hallway beyond, his own footsteps definitely fast enough to count as fleeing.

He made it back to his room with five bottles of Antivan red. Josephine was going to murder him when she noticed. Dorian didn’t care, because getting black-out drunk was definitely the best plan right now, perhaps the only good plan he’d ever had in his life.

Unfortunately, fits of unbridled alcohol consumption sometimes backfired in that they reminded him of home, which led his thoughts in some very unwanted directions. He was halfway through his first bottle when a fresh new revelation struck him: he’d been obsessing about Cullen not only because of the lingering effects of the blood magic, but also as a way to avoid confronting what had happened to him in Redcliffe.

He'd lost the whole week between rituals, but in a cruel twist of fate, his memory of Redcliffe was crystal _fucking_ clear, even through the steadily building buzz of the wine. The sensation of being mentally laid open and having a part of himself destroyed… he hadn’t known horror like that even existed. And the fact that his father hated who he was so much that he’d stoop to such vile methods, that correcting Dorian’s perversion was more important than following his own ethics—no. Dorian wouldn’t think about that. He was determined to make a _career_ out of pretending Halward Pavus didn’t exist.

He finished the first bottle and immediately opened the second. Had the counter-ritual also felt like severing a limb, but for Cullen? Dorian only remembered Cullen as a gentle, reassuring presence. He knew from the research notes that the other participant had to be willing, but that didn’t necessarily make the experience a pleasant one. Exactly which parts of this mess did the Commander find objectionable? Perhaps if Dorian could ease his fears, mitigate some the… _whatever_ it was that Cullen was responding to, perhaps then…

No, no, that was his obsessive side talking, and that side of himself was repulsive, he must remember. He wasn’t sure how much of his infatuation with Cullen was a direct effect of the blood magic bond, and how much was simply that Cullen had stayed after reviving him, when Dorian felt so lost and fragile and raw. Either way, there was nothing he could do to stop wanting Cullen—but he could stop allowing himself to act upon it.

No more plans, plans were _bad_ , he would obliterate the plans. He would stop pursuing Cullen _aggressively_. He tilted the bottle up to swallow the last dregs of the wine, then dropped it to the floor with a hollow thunk and levered himself off the bed. The world might be swaying like a rough night on the Waking Sea, but Dorian had long ago cultivated the ability to walk in a more-or-less straight line even while fantastically intoxicated, so he managed to navigate from his room to the library without falling over.

There it was, balanced on the armrest of his reading chair: the library’s copy of _Tale of the Champion_. A physical manifestation of Dorian’s obsession. He picked up the book, turning it over in his hands, and he could practically feel the temptation leaching into his skin.

So he did the logical thing: he set the book on fire.

Purple flames curled out of his fingers and blackened the edges of the pages, the fire turning yellow as the cover caught and started to burn on its own. And then—because alcohol did nothing to quell his tendency toward petty spitefulness—he threw the burning book over the railing to land with a thud on the first floor of the rotunda. He hoped it left a permanent scorch mark on the stone, to irritate Solas for the rest of time.

Dorian felt a wary prickle on the back of his neck and looked up to see Leliana watching from above, inscrutable as always.

“Didn’t care for the ending,” he called up to her.

She said nothing. Leliana had a way of looking straight through people as if they were a once-interesting puzzle that she’d already solved, and found mildly disappointing in the solving of them. Or perhaps this was just how she looked at Dorian. Either way, he was in no mood to have his innermost self examined and deemed wanting by the spymaster, so he made a strategic retreat back to his chamber.

He’d taken care of the book and all the associated temptation it represented; what else could be done? He would… he would write a letter, yes, a letter to Cullen. He sat at his desk and fumbled with the cap on his ink bottle. A letter declaring his undying affections—no, no, _focus Dorian—_ declaring his intent to respect Cullen’s bodily autonomy ( _kaffas_ , what is the word for “autonomy” in Common?) and furthermore to stay the bloody void out of Cullen’s way from now on. In the first version, he accidentally strayed into the use of words like “devoted” and “passionate” and “all my heart,” so he had to crumple that piece of paper, toss it over his shoulder, and start anew. But by the fifth iteration, he managed to write only what he thought Cullen wanted to hear: Dorian would leave him alone.

The task of finding a runner while absolutely sloshed took longer than it would have to simply walk to Cullen’s office and deliver the letter himself, but of course he couldn’t do that, because Cullen never wanted to see him again. By the time he had cornered a recruit and coerced her into fulfilling the mission, Dorian was more than ready to slink back to his room and ugly-cry into his pillow.

After Rilienus broke his heart, he’d sworn to never give it away again, but Cullen had fucking _stolen_ it and then immediately thrown it in the garbage. Dorian hated _the whole of Thedas_ , but himself most of all, for being a weak, disgusting person whom no one could ever love. If a rift wanted to open up in his bedroom and swallow him, now would be a convenient time to take a lovely winter vacation to the void.

Barring that, there was always more wine.

******

The next day, Cullen filled his schedule with activities that would prevent him from being caught alone. He took several units of troops outside the walls for training exercises all morning, and he spent the afternoon walking the halls with the chief architect, who gave an update on the ongoing restoration efforts. He even ate his meals in the mess hall for once instead of at his desk (and thank the Maker Cassandra was there to sit with him in companionable silence).

He would eventually have to return to his office and face the ever-accumulating paperwork, but if he tackled it at night he could reasonably lock the doors, and then _that mage_ would not be able to catch him unawares again. Unless Dorian could unlock a door from the outside using magic? Would it be safer or less safe to spend the night walking the ramparts?

Cullen did not for a minute doubt that the Vint would try for more. A runner had brought him a note from Dorian promising to keep his distance, but if the blood magic had planted a need inside him that came even close to the desire consuming Cullen’s thoughts, he would not be able to resist it for long. Cullen would have to stay vigilant.

That day passed, and then the next. He saw no sign of the mage, but he attributed Dorian’s absence to the effectiveness of his own tactics.

He started sleeping in his armor, when he slept at all. He instructed the runners and watch guards who frequented his office to knock in a particular pattern. He kept his sword close at hand at all times, and he asked Harritt for a nice slim dagger that would fit comfortably inside his boot. His mind was his own, and he would defend it to the death. He was on edge, exhausted, and in pain, but this was all fine and normal—pleasure was a trap, but misery he could trust.

A week passed without confrontation. Ellana and Solas left to run some urgent personal errand in the Exalted Plains, and he could almost believe Dorian went with them—that’s how thoroughly absent the Vint appeared. (But he knew for a fact that she’d taken Cole and Blackwall instead.) Cullen’s nerves felt frayed, and he wished the mage would hurry up and make his move. This infernal _waiting_ was somehow even worse than the shame of giving in to his lust. He needed to stay sharp, but his mind was so muddled, reduced as he was from his former self.

While he’d thrown away the symbolic Fade version of the lyrium kit, his real kit still sat in his office, staring at him, a constant reminder that it would be _so simple_ to become sharp and clear and strong again. Perhaps taking it would even purge him of this intolerable desire. In his more lucid moments, he recognized this as the pure folly it was, but the temptation grew.

The relentless agony splitting his skull chanted, _lyrium lyrium lyrium_ , and the blood magic stirring his cock yelled, _Dorian Dorian Dorian_ , and some distant, rational part of his mind observed, _yes, this is how I finally go insane._

He was in his office one night when he started sweating and shaking, an episode clawing at the corners of his mind. He peeled off his armor in a frantic bid to keep the memory at bay, but it rose up like a wave, dragging him under…

_Day four of imprisonment in the broken Circle. His throat is too dry to swallow, his inflamed wounds throb and reek and are turning him feverish, and an awful nagging pain is building behind his eyes. He’s been deprived of sleep, water, lyrium, food, and hope for too many hours now, and for the first time, he wonders if death would be a sweet release. If he’s lucky, the dehydration will take him soon, before the lyrium withdrawal gets worse, before the desire demon comes back to play with him some more._

_But then a blood mage arrives. The spell burrows under his skin and crawls down the inside of his limbs, and the blood in Cullen’s veins holds him still as a statue, imprisoned inside his own traitorous flesh. The sensation is horrifying, all-consuming, and he’s powerless to stop the glass vial pressed to his lips, the elfroot potion poured down his throat. He chokes and sputters and tries to spit it in the man’s face, as utter despair sets in—they are not going to permit him to die._

Cullen lurched over to the sideboard in his office and gulped down half the pitcher of water to convince his body that now, in the present, in Skyhold, he was not dying of dehydration. Vivid nightmares were still a weekly routine, but it had been _years_ since he’d had waking episodes. Maker, Leliana was right, he was spiraling. He needed relief, he just needed this to be _over_ , the thought of sliding back into the impenetrable darkness of his past was too much to bear…

Then he had a flash of clarity: Cullen didn’t have to kill himself, because there was another way to end this madness.

He would kill Dorian, instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the sake of clarity, *I* wouldn’t classify the sex in the previous chapter as rape, but Dorian doesn’t have a very good understanding of why Cullen is running hot and cold. IMHO, the consent is dubious primarily because they’re both under the influence of magical attraction – Cullen’s not physically incapable of saying no.
> 
> On a lighter note, I’ve always thought the Solas-punching scene would work great with Cassandra, who definitely holds the award for Most Likely To Deck An Ally. So there you go, Cass, you’re welcome.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ellana and Dorian both seek the middle ground. (And Cullen... does not.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, y'all, and apologies for the delay! I've got some deadlines looming, so I'll probably need to switch to a less frequent update schedule for the foreseeable future, but I am going to keep plugging away at this piece.
> 
> TW for discussions of suicide and self harm in this chapter.

_Until later, Inquisitor_ , Leliana had said, and Ellana understood it for the threat it was.

The spymaster gave the situation a couple days to settle before calling Ellana and Cassandra back to the War Room. Josephine joined them this time, which seeded a little sprout of worry inside Ellana’s chest; if they needed the ambassador, it meant Leliana was considering solutions that would not stay small or quiet.

“I will cut straight to the heart of the matter,” Leliana said when the four of them were gathered. “We must remove Cullen from active duty and place him under observation.”

 _Oh_ , there it was, the words landing like a physical blow. Ellana closed her eyes for a moment, wallowing in guilt.

Cassandra snapped, “Absolutely not! None of this is Cullen’s doing.”

“He made explicit reference to ending his own life. I do not believe it was an idle threat.”

Before Cassandra could deny it, Ellana interjected, “He did. It was after I sent you out.”

“And he’s not permitted a single moment of weakness?” the Seeker sneered. “He is training the soldiers, he is performing his duties, he is even taking meals in the mess hall. What more do you want of him?”

“I want,” Leliana said slowly, “some assurance that our commander isn’t about to throw himself off the ramparts.”

“Cullen lives and breathes for the Inquisition,” Cassandra argued. “If you take his position away from him, he surely _will._ ”

“That may be true,” the spymaster agreed.

There was a horrible silence in which they all gradually came to realize what Leliana meant. Cullen might attempt suicide either way, but if he was removed from his position he would be just a man, and not _the commander of the forces of the Inquisition_ killing himself.

Ellana sucked in a shocked breath, and Josephine murmured a soft, “Oh, my.”

Cassandra’s voice, when she found it again, was surprisingly quiet. “That is incredibly heartless, even for you.”

“Someone has to be,” Leliana hissed, her cool emotionless exterior finally cracking. “This conversation ceased being about what Cullen deserves the moment he became a liability to the Inquisition. I do not enjoy it, but if we fail in our endeavor, the cost is _the world_.”

Ellana tossed her hands in the air. “There has to be a middle ground—something in between the Breach swallowing the sky and everyone dying, and us using and discarding our own people like pawns on a chessboard.” Cassandra quirked an eyebrow at her, and she huffed. “Yes, I realized the irony as soon as I said it.”

Regaining her usual composure, the spymaster said, “Josie? You’ve been quiet. What say you?”

Josephine sighed. “We have the peace talks at the Winter Palace in a matter of weeks, and the Orlesian court is eager to meet the man who delivered us a decisive victory at Adamant. The optics of restructuring our military command at this time would be unfavorable.”

Ellana said, “If Cullen really is unstable, we can hardly bring him to Halamshiral and parade him around in front of a bunch of masked fops.”

The ambassador looked ever so slightly offended at this unflattering characterization of the Orlesian court. Ellana felt a small twinge of guilt for having belittled Josephine’s important work, but this was a drop in the bucket compared to the guilt she felt over having created this mess in the first place.

“Be that as it may,” Josephine replied diplomatically, “many of our allies have sworn soldiers and resources to our cause based on the reputation he has earned as a military strategist. If we replace him, we risk losing their confidence and support.”

Leliana said, “And yet how much worse would the loss of confidence be if he takes his own life? No matter the true circumstances, it would be viewed as a statement of the hopelessness of our cause. We could lose half our forces overnight to desertion.”

Time to put on her Inquisitor-face. Ellana straightened her shoulders and lowered her voice. “Josephine is telling me what _will_ happen; you’re telling me what _might_ happen. I’m sorry, Leliana, but I won’t consider removing Cullen until he ceases to be able to perform his duties satisfactorily. Whatever struggles he’s facing in the privacy of his own mind are just that: private.”

Coldly, the spymaster said, “It will stop being private when he turns himself into a red smear on the cobblestones of the lower courtyard.”

Ellana scrubbed her face with both hands, abruptly exhausted. “I’m leaving for the Exalted Plains at first light; something’s come up that can’t wait. I’d ask you to accompany me, Cassandra, but I think it best you stay to keep an eye on Cullen.” Also because the _something_ was a mission to save Solas’s spirit friend, and now did not seem the right time to ask the Seeker to do any favors for Solas. “We can revisit the matter of replacing the Commander when I return, if you deem it necessary, Leliana.”

The nightingale inclined her head. “Until later, Inquisitor.”

It still sounded like a threat.

******

After a week in self-imposed exile, Dorian was yet again out of wine and going stir-crazy, and so he decided to risk a small outing. The Herald’s Rest should be safe territory, since the Commander never went for a pint unless someone physically dragged him there. As a bonus, there would be alcohol. All the alcohol. Dorian was bound and determined to take out his self-loathing upon his own liver.

Unfortunately, the Herald’s Rest also had a hulking Qunari with one very shrewd eye. “Hey, big guy—glad to see you on your feet,” Bull called across the tavern, loud enough to draw attention.

Dorian suppressed an eyeroll and reluctantly carried his mug of sharp Ferelden ale over to sit at the Iron Bull’s table. “I hear I have you to thank for that, in part.”

The spy spread his hands and flashed a jovial smile. “Hey, bleeding for the Inquisition is what I signed up for.”

Dorian eyed him, suspicious of this too-casual response. He knew Bull was deeply uncomfortable with magic in general, and blood magic in particular, but he decided not to pry. “Right, well, here’s to living.”

Bull watched as Dorian gulped down half his ale in one long draught. “You know you can’t actually drink away your problems, right?”

“No, but I can put forth a valiant effort.” He raised his mug in a mocking salute.

“Wanna talk about it?”

Dorian took another sip, a somewhat more moderate one this time. “There are quite a number of topics I’d rather not to discuss, so I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific. Or I could just say an all-encompassing ‘no’ if you’d prefer.”

“All right, handsome. But if you need to vent some of that _frustration_ , just let me know.” He waggled his eyebrow suggestively.

Where Dorian flirted reflexively, the Iron Bull flirted with _intent_. It normally wasn’t a problem for their friendship, but at the moment Dorian was indeed wrestling with several days’ worth of magically-induced sexual and romantic frustration. He had precious little patience for getting probed in that particular sore spot.

“See, I don’t believe you would,” he hissed angrily. “You’re just testing to see how I react, and I don’t appreciate it. I am not some laboratory specimen for you to poke at.”

“Fair enough.” Bull raised a hand and scratched at the base of one horn. “Look, I don’t pretend to understand all this magic crap. But have you considered that there might be a middle ground between pounding Cullen into next week and completely ignoring him?”

“What,” said Dorian.

“What,” said Bull.

“You—you’re not supposed to know about any of that!” he sputtered.

The Iron Bull’s massive shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “Just think about it, yeah?”

******

Cullen skulked in the shadows, just down the hall from the door to Dorian’s room, his pulse thrumming with anticipation. There wasn’t enough lyrium left in his system for a proper Silence, so he’d have to rely on stealth or subterfuge to get close enough for a killing blow. He held his dagger in a reverse grip, the flat of the blade pressed against his forearm so it was hidden from view.

He waited.

Finally, the sound of footsteps approaching, a smooth cadence like a dancer’s that Cullen would recognize anywhere. Dorian had two books tucked under his arm and a third open in his hands, reading while he walked, absurdly oblivious to his surroundings. This was too easy.

Cullen hesitated.

If only he’d had the cool, distant logic of a lyrium high, he would have slid the knife into Dorian’s kidney the instant he was close enough, before the mage even became aware of his presence. But there were all these conflicting emotions raging through him, too fast and tangled to differentiate—he needed it to be a fight, he needed spells thrown at him so he could simply react to the threat without thinking, without doubt.

So he shoved Dorian hard, face-first into the wall, staying light on the balls of his feet so he could dodge. Dorian dropped the books and threw up his hands to catch himself against the stone. Static crackled down the exposed skin of his left arm, but he held the spell long enough to look over his shoulder. His gray eyes widened, as if the assault itself was not a surprise, but the identity of the person responsible _was_. (Cullen pushed this aside to think about later. Or perhaps never.)

“Fasta vass, what is the meaning of this?”

“Defend yourself!” Cullen growled. He couldn’t kill someone in cold blood; not sober, at least, not even a mage.

“If you’re looking to work out our differences in a sparring session, this is hardly the place,” Dorian quipped. He turned around, slow and deliberate, to lean his back against the wall instead.

Cullen lunged forward again and pinned his forearm across Dorian’s throat, leaning in to choke off his air. “Fight back, I said!”

But Dorian was not cooperating at all; he extinguished the lightning in his palm. He couldn’t speak, so it was the piercing glare in his eyes that said, _Get the fuck off me, I refuse to play your game._ His face started to turn red from the pressure, and then, very slowly, an almost imperceptible force pushed back against Cullen’s arm.

The hairs on the back of his neck rose as Cullen realized it was magic—incredibly tightly controlled magic. He hadn’t known it was possible for _anyone_ to achieve that level of precision with force magic, let alone that Dorian could. A spike of pure terror hit his chest, and he very nearly plunged the dagger into the mage’s guts right then, except for the look in those expressive gray eyes. Dorian wasn’t doing this to intimidate with his skill; he was trying to be gentle.

The thought of Dorian handling him gently did strange things to Cullen’s insides.

He pulled away and dropped his arm, a frustrated growl vibrating deep in his throat. “Where have you been?” The words came out less accusatory and more anguished than he’d meant.

“Out of your way, as I’d promised.” Dorian adjusted his robes and ran the back of his hand along his abused throat, but made no move to retrieve the books, his eyes still tracking Cullen’s movements closely.

Cullen was aware he was breathing too fast, too deep, his muscles quivering with tension, yet he could not calm himself. “But you’re still here in my head all the time! I can hardly think about anything else.”

For the briefest of moments, an expression of longing flickered across Dorian’s countenance, before the mage smoothed it away. “I am sincerely sorry there isn’t more I can do to alleviate the side effects.”

 _Maker_ , what had he been thinking? He didn’t want to kill Dorian—he wanted this stunning, sinfully talented man to touch him and kiss him and fuck him senseless. He wanted Dorian to make it all go away again, like he had in Cullen’s office. The dagger fell from nerveless fingers and clattered on the floor. Dorian’s eyebrows shot up as he registered what it was he’d been holding. Much too late, Cullen snatched up the dagger and tucked it back into his boot, as if hiding the blade from sight made it not real anymore.

“I—I’m sorry,” he stuttered. “I haven’t been— I think I need—” He took a quick deep breath, and then another, trying to center himself so he could find the words. “Could we… like before…?”

Dorian folded his arms. “Are you going to go back to loathing me immediately after?”

“Probably,” Cullen admitted, but he stepped forward to close the distance between them, unable to resist to lure of Dorian’s touch for one second longer.

The mage actually had the nerve to grab his shoulders and hold him away. “I can’t, Cullen. You’ve made it quite clear that you don’t consider this to be consensual.”

“I don’t care,” Cullen growled. He easily broke Dorian’s hold, backed the mage against the wall, and pressed their bodies together. “I need you, it’s driving me mad, I don’t have the strength to resist it…”

He went for Dorian’s mouth, but the mage turned his head away from the kiss with a pained expression. “Hence why I’ve been trying to remove the temptation,” he said, voice rough with desire. “Pouncing on me in the hallway is not making this easy, I’ll have you know.”

The mere thought that Dorian found him difficult to resist made his cock strain against the confines of his trousers. Cullen traced the angle of the mage’s jaw with his lips, delighting in the shudder he managed to elicit.

“Cullen…” he groaned, his exasperation tinged with an audible note of arousal.

“Please,” Cullen breathed against the sensual curve of Dorian’s neck. “If I can’t have you, I’m afraid I’ll…” _turn to lyrium_. He choked on the sentence before he could finish it; Dorian didn’t know about the withdrawal, and Cullen was already fighting down so much shame he couldn’t bear to explain his other weakness.

Dorian made a frustrated noise in his throat. He brought his hands to Cullen’s hips and pushed one thigh between Cullen’s legs, giving him something to grind on. The pressure against his hard cock sent sparks of heat up his spine.

“Listen to me, Cullen,” he ordered in that sultry bedroom tone of his. “You are listening, yes?”

Cullen was a little busy rutting against him, working his way up toward _deliriously_ turned on, but he managed to say, “Yes.”

A hand moved to the back of his neck and pulled him closer so Dorian could suck on his earlobe, which was _ooohhh_ so good. Then he murmured, “You are _not_ to harm yourself or anyone else over this, no matter what happens between us. That is my command.”

Cullen shook with desire, wanting nothing more than to please Dorian. “Aye, ser.”

“Good man.” Before the praise could settle in, Dorian wrenched himself out of Cullen’s arms. “Then our time together has concluded.”

Cullen sobbed, bereft, and leaned against the wall to catch his breath. He shot Dorian a look of betrayal. “Don’t make me beg. I need it.”

The mage took a deep, unsteady inhale. “No, what you need is distance from me. Indulging this impulse is not healthy for either of us.”

Cullen lunged forward and got ahold of him again, wrapping his arms around Dorian’s body and pinning them together in an iron grip. Grinding against Dorian, he could feel the mage’s arousal through their clothes. “Fine, I’ll beg, I don’t care—please I need you, I need to feel you inside me, there’s so much emptiness…”

“Festis bei umo canavarum,” the mage swore, quivering in Cullen’s arms as his elegant hands fisted in the fur mantle—but to push Cullen away or pull him closer was unclear.

“You can hurt me, if you want. I can take it,” he murmured, but this seemed to be the wrong thing to say. Dorian was definitely pushing now, trying to squirm away again.

He snapped, “I’m not a monster, Cullen. Let go of me.”

“No, please please, I’m sorry.” Cullen pulled him back, fingers desperately digging in to the mage’s sides. “Don’t you want me?”

Dorian huffed and gave up his futile struggling. “Of course I want you, I’ve wanted you since that first glare you threw at me in the back room of the Haven Chantry.”

“Then _take me_ , any way you like, just…” _Oh, please, just make it stop._

Tenderly, Dorian brushed his thumb along the scar on Cullen’s lip, sending a shiver down his spine. Those gray eyes were like a storm, his voice quiet when he said, “I am a weak man, Cullen. If the concern were just me, I would _definitely_ keep throwing myself at you over and over until I broke. But you see, it’s not. So you have to go, amatus.”

Cullen still didn’t know what that word meant. All he could feel was the sting of rejection and the rising tide of shame at his own pathetic behavior. “Fine,” he snapped, releasing the mage and shoving him away harshly. “I hate you,” he added for good measure, before he turned and fled.

Stumbling away down the darkened halls, Cullen clutched his arms around himself, feeling as if he might fly apart if he didn’t hold the pieces together. He was barely aware of where his feet were taking him until he pushed through the door into the quiet little chapel near the garden. This late into the night, he was blessedly alone, with nothing but a small legion of guttering candles for company. He fell to his knees on the flagstones at Andraste’s feet.

“O Maker, hear my cry: Guide me through the blackest nights. Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked. Make me to rest in the warmest places.” He sobbed his way through Transfigurations 12, hands clasped together and pressed to his forehead. “Take from me a life of sorrow. Lift me from a world of pain. Judge me worthy of Your endless pride.”

It wasn’t working. _It wasn’t working_. He felt nothing inside—there was no light, no warmth, no presence, he was simply reciting old words in an empty room. Had his faith never been anything more than subservience to some imagined higher power? Was his _whole life_ built on a foundation of quicksand? He lurched back to his feet and paced the narrow width of the chapel, thoughts churning.

“Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and turned it against His children. They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones!” he shouted, then he grabbed one of the wrought iron candle stands and threw it against the opposite wall in an exposion of wax.

He was polluted again, the blood magic wormed so deep into his brain that not even prayer could shield him from it. Or perhaps he’d never truly been free of it after Kinloch, perhaps it was impossible to become clean after blood magic smeared its corruption on one’s soul. The Inquisitor must have chosen him because she could tell he was already ruined, so far beyond redemption that further desecration could not possibly matter.

Cullen realized he’d made it back to his office. He didn’t remember walking the battlements to get there, but this hardly seemed to matter in the grand scheme of things.

He was defiled in every way possible. A wave of sickening sense memory washed over him—how easily Uldred’s mages turned him into a puppet, his own blood pulling at him like a marionette’s strings. And now the magic was under his skin again, running through his veins like poison, his heart pumping nothing but _demon fuel_ through his body.

Cullen’s pulse raced with rising panic. He was full of the foul, tainted fluid, and it would be used against him if he didn’t get it out _._ Now, _now_ , he could tolerate its presence not one second longer.

_Oh, Maker, get it out get it out get it out—_

He drew the dagger from his boot.

******

Dorian had done the right thing. He was quite sure of it, yes, made the mature choice, _congratulations to me._

Surely no one could fault him for his achingly hard erection, what with the gorgeous Commander literally and repeatedly throwing himself at him. The important part was that Dorian had held fast to his promise and not taken advantage of Cullen’s magically-induced desire. And if Cullen didn’t seem to appreciate Dorian Pavus, Responsible Adult… well, once he cooled down a bit, the Commander would be glad that someone had exercised restraint.

Dorian picked up the library books and let himself into his room, lighting candles with a snap of his fingers. He intended to settle down for a bit of a read, but he completely failed to put the incident in the hallway out of his mind, so instead he found himself pacing. _Had_ he handled the situation correctly? Yes, of course he had. Except that even in his carefully orchestrated absence, Cullen’s mental state was clearly still deteriorating. He’d brought a _dagger_ , and not in an I’m-going-to-wave-it-around-and-threaten-you sort of way; hidden blades are for when one genuinely intends to do some stabbing.

Cullen came here prepared to deal serious damage. If he’d been feeling more like Dorian Pavus, Vindictive Delinquent when Cullen shoved him, they both might have needed a nice long vacation in the infirmary. He should _do_ something.

No, it wasn’t his business. Cullen despised him. Cassandra was the one Cullen went to with his problems, and he would not welcome Dorian’s meddling. Still, the Iron Bull’s words echoed in his head: _have you considered that there might be a middle ground between pounding Cullen into next week and completely ignoring him?_

All right, he would go, just to check up on Cullen. As a friend. That was possible, right? He’d already proven he was capable of being in close proximity to the Commander without tearing off the man’s clothes and forcing himself upon him. So. Middle ground. He had very little idea how to be Dorian Pavus, Good Friend, but for Cullen he would muddle through.

He checked himself in the mirror, fully aware that he was being ridiculous, because one does not need to look flawlessly put together in order to be a good friend. Then he left his room and took the long way around the battlements, hoping a brisk walk in the night air would inspire him to think of the right words with which to broach the subject of Cullen’s well-being. Clever but sincere, familiar yet not _too_ familiar. He could manage that, couldn’t he? But by the time he arrived at the door, all he’d really acquired was a very cold left shoulder. So much for brisk walks. Oh well, he’d have to improvise.

Dorian let himself into Cullen’s office, and his heart stopped: Cullen was lying on the floor, and there was blood absolutely _everywhere._


	7. Chapter 7

Dorian was in motion before his conscious mind had quite caught up with what he was seeing. Cullen’s left forearm was sliced open with long, deep gashes, blood welling out of the wounds. The floor was slick with blood, and in his haste to get to Cullen, he went down hard on one knee—he barely felt the pain though, with the rush of panicked adrenaline singing in his veins.

Even before he checked for a pulse, he rallied all his training to push the fear aside and concentrate on casting a tight ring of force magic around Cullen’s arm. It was an extremely delicate and precise piece of spellwork; a lesser mage would have erred in one direction or the other, either crushing the bones or not applying enough pressure to stop the bleeding. But he was no lesser mage—he was Dorian fucking Pavus, scion of his house, envy of his peers, and _he would not let Cullen die this day_.

“Commander!” He slapped lightly at Cullen’s cheeks, trying to rouse him. His eyelids fluttered and his lips moved, mumbling some unintelligible syllables.

Dorian cursed his lack of healing ability; this situation required immediate attention from an expert. Hating to leave Cullen for even a second, he nonetheless dashed out onto the ramparts, his leathers soaked down the shins from kneeling in blood, and shouted at the nearest guard, “The Commander’s down! Get the _fucking_ healers, now!”

Waiting only long enough to see the guard burst into action, Dorian ran back to Cullen’s side. He felt as if his heart had crawled up into his throat, frantic as a trapped hummingbird. “Wake up, Cullen, I need you to look at me. You can do that, yes?”

“Dorian…?” Cullen slurred, a small crease of confusion forming between his brows.

“Fine time for Solas and Ellana to both be off gallivanting,” Dorian groused, struggling to keep his tone light. A few of Fiona’s mages had been assigned to infirmary duty, but none were as proficient at combat medicine as Solas. “Lie still now, help’s coming.”

“I am not a puppet!” Cullen insisted, rallying a surprising amount of emphasis, considering his barely-lucid state. “Not a… can’t… pull my strings, if…”

“Shh, my love, shh. You’re safe, I’ve got you,” Dorian murmured, hardly noticing which specific words of reassurance he used as he carded his fingers through Cullen’s sweat-damp curls. To his relief, Cullen calmed a bit. He didn’t seem aware of the force magic clamping down on his arm, or if he was, it didn’t bother him.

Gazing up, Cullen lifted his right hand as if he wanted to touch Dorian’s face, but either his depth perception or his muscle coordination failed him and he missed by several inches. “Sss all right,” he said, apparently having decided, thanks to some addled Cullen-logic, that _Dorian_ was the one in need of comfort here. “All gone, they can’t use it…”

Nothing about that comforted Dorian. Terror sat like a hard nugget of ice in his stomach. Fasta vass, how blighted long did it take to fetch help? Finally, he heard the sound of boots approaching fast along the ramparts, but when the door opened, it wasn’t a healer—it was Knight-Captain Rylen staring across the office with a look of shock quickly melting into rage. Dorian had time to think, _oh kaffas_ , as he realized what the scene must look like to a Templar who’d served in Kirkwall.

“Wait, this isn’t—” he managed to say before the holy smite knocked him flat on his back, ripping away his connection to the Fade like bear claws tearing into his soul. It was a unique and fantastically excruciating experience that he might have mentally catalogued for later consideration, except that all he could think about was the Commander. The smite had evaporated the force magic around Cullen’s arm, and blood welled immediately from the deep cuts, but the idiot Templar was busy _drawing his sword_ instead of actually helping. “Vishante kaffas,” Dorian gasped, fighting for breath, “can’t you see he’s dying?”

Cullen’s head rolled to the side. “Rylen? No, no…” he mumbled incoherently, “…see me like this…”

Fingers fumbling with desperation, Dorian unbuckled one of the straps from his complex and highly fashionable armor and yanked until the seams tore. He crawled back over to Cullen, looped the strap around his arm, and pulled it as tight as he could, muscles shaking with the effort so soon after the smite. Cullen may not have noticed the force magic but he was definitely now aware of the tourniquet, because he scrabbled weakly at the strap with his right hand, trying to dislodge it while Dorian held it taut.

“No… have to—have to get the poison out, it’s made of _demons_ ,” he tried to explain.

“Your blood is not made of demons, Cullen.” Amazing that his voice came out so even and reasonable when he was filled with such absolute panic. “It is perfectly normal blood, and it belongs on the inside of your body.”

The Knight-Captain seemed to be frozen in place, his blade raised menacingly, but his eyes widened as he digested their words. “What is the meaning of this?” Rylen demanded, when he finally found his tongue.

“Oh, put away that pointy stick—you can stab me some other day, when your commanding officer isn’t quite so determined to exsanguinate himself,” Dorian snapped. “Why don’t you do something useful and see if there’s a stash of potions around?” He had no notion whether Cullen was the sort to keep his own supply of medicines, but searching the office would at least give Rylen something to do that wasn’t stabbing handsome mages.

The next person to burst into the office was a woman with short red hair, whom Dorian vaguely recognized as the mundane surgeon, which was just _perfect_ really—why send a proper healer when a flesh seamstress would do?

“Please tell me you at least have a regenerative in that bag of yours.” Dorian didn’t have the energy to bother hiding the derision in his tone.

Unruffled by this reception, the surgeon rushed to Cullen’s side, her sharp gaze cataloguing the scene. “You’ve got that tight?” she said with a jerk of her chin toward the tourniquet, while her hands fished a vial of brown fluid from her medical kit.

“No, I’m draping it over his arm as a fashion accessory,” Dorian bit out. “Of course it’s tight.”

The surgeon simply nodded and uncorked the regeneration potion. It wouldn’t close the wounds, but it would steadily replenish Cullen’s blood volume, which was the most immediate danger. Except for one problem: as soon as the glass touched Cullen’s lips, his eyes flew wide with absolute terror and he began thrashing like his life depended on it.

“Kaffas!” Dorian struggled to keep ahold of the strap, and narrowly missed getting hit in the face with Cullen’s other hand. How could the man possibly be _that strong_ when half his blood was smeared all over the office? “Cullen Rutherford, calm yourself!”

“No! I won’t… can’t make me drink…”

The surgeon’s lips pressed together. “Very well. The arm first, then, if he’s going to put up a fuss. Hold him steady.”

“Oh is _that_ what I ought to be doing?” Dorian answered with another ample serving of bitter, fear-fueled sarcasm. Honestly, what did the woman think he was trying to do?

The surgeon ignored his jibe. With quick, practiced motions, she applied a somewhat more professional tourniquet just below the strap from Dorian’s armor, one that would hold itself in place to free up both sets of their hands. Cullen kept flailing, trying to get away from them; he managed to punch Dorian in the shoulder hard enough to bruise. Seeing no other alternatives, Dorian threw a leg across Cullen’s torso and sat on him to keep him still.

“Stop.” Dorian lowered his voice, leaning down to speak close to Cullen’s ear. “It’s me, I’m here with you, I will keep you safe.”

Some of the fight drained out of him, but his body still felt tense. “Dorian…” he mumbled.

“I need you to swallow a potion.” He snapped his fingers at the surgeon, and she placed the glass vial in his waiting palm.

Whining in the back of his throat, Cullen clamped his mouth closed and squeezed his eyes shut.

Dorian worked his free hand into Cullen’s hair and pulled, demanding attention. “This is not a request. This is an order, Cullen, and you will comply.”

The Commander was trembling now, but his lips parted, and when Dorian fed the regenerative to him in small sips, he didn’t try to spit it out. By the time Dorian had coaxed it all down his throat, the surgeon had field-dressed the wounds to ready him for transport to the infirmary. Another healer showed up with a stretcher tucked under one arm, at which point Knight-Captain Rylen finally managed to find something useful to do, helping to lift Cullen onto the stretcher and then carrying one end.

Dorian followed close behind as Cullen was carried across the ramparts and down the steps to the infirmary. His heart was still kicking against his ribs like the beat of a drum, and some irrational but powerfully persuasive corner of his mind was convinced that if he let Cullen out of his sight for even a second, the man would give up breathing. Cullen was lowered onto a cot in the main room of the infirmary, and the young man who’d brought the stretcher—an assistant, apparently—tried to gently shoo the interlopers away, with mixed results. Rylen bowed out, but Dorian simply pinned the assistant with a scathing look and stoutly refused to take the hint.

Cullen was given a sedative, and as the healers got to work in earnest, Dorian was left to float aimlessly in the background. He felt hollowed out inside, an empty dread expanding to fill the space left vacant by his waning adrenaline. He tucked his hands under his arms and tried very hard not to think about why his clothes were sticking wetly to his back and shins. This was his fault. Why could he never get anything right?

The former Circle mages were skilled enough to stop the bleeding and convince the flesh to begin to knit back together. But if there was damage to the tendons, that sort of precision work would require a spirit healer, and they had none at Skyhold. Cullen’s left hand could be crippled by this, and Dorian was powerless to fix it.

Soon after the healers finished their work, Dorian found himself slouched on a stool at Cullen’s bedside with a cup of herbal tea in his hands, though he couldn’t recall who had given it to him. He stared at the tea as if it were some foreign object, trying and failing to imagine how it could possibly go into the pit that was his stomach. He set it aside and rested his hands on the cot, instead, tracing softly over the knuckles of Cullen’s right hand while the man slept the deep slumber of sedation and recovery.

It was impossible not to dwell; there was nothing to do _but_ dwell. Dorian had spent the better part of his youth honing the particular entropic spirit magic needed to perform necromancy, and his training was fundamentally at odds with the sort of spirit magic required for healing. Once he’d specialized in death magic, the task of learning _life_ magic became exponentially more difficult, and Dorian much preferred to improve skills at which he already excelled, rather than struggling to learn a class of spell he had no natural talent for. What youthful arrogance. Creation magic had seemed tedious and boring—something for the Laetans to practice, while Dorian of House Pavus pursued higher interests. And now Cullen had almost died because he’d never bothered to put in the effort to gain basic proficiency at healing. He was worse than useless.

Someone cleared their throat, startling him from his downward spiral of miserable thoughts, and Dorian looked up to see Cassandra looming large at the foot of Cullen’s cot.

“Seeker!” Dorian pulled his hands away from Cullen like a child caught sneaking treats from the kitchen. “I’ll… just…” _flee before you punch me_ , he thought, standing hastily from the bedside to retreat from the infirmary.

“No,” Cassandra said, voice gruff, her hand catching his leather gauntlet as he tried to slip past her. “The healers say you saved his life. So if you wish to stay, then stay.”

Baffled, Dorian searched her face for clues; the pinched set of her mouth meant she was angry, though apparently not at him in specific. Cassandra huffed a sigh and hooked another stool with her boot, dragging it over to sit beside the cot. With an impatient wave of her hand, she indicated that Dorian should resume his own vigil. Still half-suspecting a trap, he lowered himself back onto his seat.

After what Dorian would characterize as an _acutely uncomfortable_ length of silence, Cassandra decided to give voice to her thoughts. “I suspect there is a part of Cullen that will always be trapped in Kinloch Hold. I knew he was struggling; I thought he needed me to have faith in him.” She drew a ragged breath. “Now I must wonder if I’ve pushed him to this, put more weight on his shoulders than he could carry. If the blame is as much mine as yours or the Inquisitor’s.”

Dorian didn’t know what to say to that. He filed away the name _Kinloch Hold_ for later investigation, perhaps. “Someone needs to talk to Knight-Captain Rylen. The Commander was attacked by a Venatori spy, and we don’t want any other versions of the story floating around.”

Cassandra frowned at him in consternation for a moment before understanding set in. Apparently it hadn’t occurred to her that they would need a cover story to protect Cullen’s privacy. “That is… yes, that would be wise. I shall make certain Leliana knows to see to the matter. A Venatori spy.”

She stood from her stool as if it were a profound relief to have something to _do_ , instead of this useless waiting.

“Cassandra, wait.” Dorian glanced around, making sure none of the healers were close enough to overhear. “You ought to know… he wasn’t trying to die. I think he was trying to get the blood magic out.”

The Seeker’s jaw clenched and she swallowed, avoiding his gaze as she fought to keep her emotions under control. “I… yes. Thank you. It is something, I suppose. Not enough. But something.”

Dorian’s lips twisted with bitter regret. “Don’t worry—there’s enough blame to go around that we can all eat a nice large slice.”

******

He was in pain, so he must be alive.

Cullen’s inner arm throbbed in a distant, desultory way that he confused for a Fade dream, at first, before his sluggish thoughts recognized the feeling: a medicinal blanket of analgesia covering the hurt, not so much banishing it as making it seem unimportant. He blinked, his eyelashes tacky with sleep, eyes reluctant to focus in the dim light, but he felt increasingly confident that he was conscious and the pain was real. The fog of confusion didn't bother him much; it was hardly the first time he'd found himself in such a state after taking some injury or other. He gathered details carefully, one at a time, as they became clear to him: he was on a bed, in one of the private recovery rooms just off the main infirmary, his left arm ached, and something heavy was weighing down his right hand.

Dazed and only half-awake, Cullen lifted his head to investigate why he couldn’t move his uninjured arm, and he discovered he wasn’t alone. Dorian sat in a chair with his entire torso slumped forward onto the side of the bed, fast asleep, Cullen’s arm pinned under him as if he were afraid Cullen might try to escape. The kohl that normally lined his eyes was streaked and smeared down his face, as if he’d been crying, and he looked startlingly young despite the ridiculous evil-magister mustache.

Gradually, Cullen’s memories began to intrude upon his waking thoughts. The helpless rage, the _need_ , the intolerable itch of blood magic crawling beneath his skin. The mad logic that compelled him to take a blade to his own body. Dorian leaning over him, refusing to let him slip down into darkness. Reality became hazy and disjointed after that.

Still, he was fairly certain he hadn’t hallucinated that part where Dorian called him _my love_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of a short chapter and I'm not sure I'm totally happy with it, but I didn't want to leave y'all hanging forever.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the boys talk it out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously this chapter is so talky, idek what happened. But if you stick it out through all the dialogue, you'll get a bit of smut at the end. Some references to Cullen's past, but nothing too graphic here.

Cullen lay in bed, staring at the ceiling of his recovery room, one arm throbbing and the other pinned beneath a sleeping mage. His thoughts ran in circles. The tide seemed to have receded on his endless sea of shame—he reached for it experimentally, focusing on the memory of how he’d completely lost his shit and there’d been _witnesses_ , but somehow the shame he should’ve been drowning in just wasn’t accessible. Perhaps it was the lingering effect of the medicine, muting more than just the pain in his arm.

Instead of his strangely absent self-loathing, all he could think about was: _shh, my love, shh._ Dorian Pavus was in love with him. Dorian Pavus was _in love_ with him. Dorian Pavus was in love with _him._ No matter where he put the emphasis, Cullen could not wrap his mind around this thought—each component seemed equally improbable. Dorian. In love. With Cullen. It was patently absurd, and no doubt a product of the blood ritual somehow. But the fact remained that while Cullen had been tricked into saving Dorian’s life, Dorian had saved Cullen of his own accord, despite—if Cullen’s memory held true—getting hit with a full-strength holy smite at close range in the middle of the rescue.

Out in the main infirmary room, someone dropped something heavy, and the sound woke Dorian with a sharp inhale and a tensing of muscles. He pushed himself up, blinking as if momentarily disoriented. “Oh, you’re awake,” the mage noticed.

Cullen opened his mouth to reply but all that came out of his parched throat was a dry cough. In a flurry of anxious attention, Dorian helped him sit up in bed and adjusted the pillows for comfort and fetched him a drink of water from the pitcher on the small table nearby. Cullen simply allowed it, bemused at the other man’s fussing. He _was_ thirsty, but mostly he was too stunned to protest as he witnessed a Tevinter Altus playing nursemaid. When Cullen had successfully drained his water cup for the second time, Dorian finally resettled on his chair; he ran a hand through his sleep-mussed hair and fussed with the corners of his mustache, as if only now remembering his usually-impeccable appearance.

“I should fetch a healer to check you over,” he said, not moving from his seat, as if unwilling to let Cullen out of his sight for even a minute.

“I’m all right, it can wait.”

Dorian snorted and looked away, his mustache quivering angrily. “Kaffas, Cullen, you’re not all right—you almost _died_ on me, do you understand?”

“Almost dying is not exactly a new experience for me.” He’d been mentally prepared for the imminence of death since he was nineteen years old. This wasn’t even the first time it might have come at his own hand, but the mage didn’t need to hear that.

Dorian’s hand crept over to clutch at Cullen’s right wrist. “Please tell me what I have to do to keep you alive.” His voice was quiet, desperate, agonized. “If it’s what you need, I will leave Skyhold.”

“I don’t think that would solve anything,” said Cullen. “You could move all the way to Rivain, and I’d still go mad wanting you.”

Dorian’s breath hitched, as if he were choking down a sob.

“The bond tying me to you, whatever it is the ritual left us with… trying to wait it out clearly isn’t working. These thoughts won’t leave me.” Cullen took a slow, steadying inhale. “How many lives depend on our success? I swore myself to this cause—I will not give less to the Inquisition than I did the Chantry.”

“What are you saying?”

“If this compulsion isn’t the sort of thing that weakens when starved… there seems to be no choice but to feed it.”

The mage’s grip tightened on his wrist. “I can’t rape the blood magic out of you, Cullen. And I don’t fancy the thought of trying.”

Cullen huffed. “That’s an oversimplification of—”

“Your wounds need checking.” Dorian stood abruptly and fled the room.

Frustrated, Cullen banged his head back against the wooden headboard of the bed. If they had any hope of carving a path through this mess, he would have to explain himself. Not… not _everything_ , but they were stuck in this together, and the weight of all his secrets wasn’t helping either of them.

After a couple minutes, the surgeon entered his room with Dorian trailing behind. When the surgeon unwrapped the bandages, Cullen sucked in a shocked breath at the state of his arm. Even half-healed, the three long cuts looked angry and deep. There would be scarring. Another permanent reminder of his weakness written into his skin, joining the signatures of Kinloch and Kirkwall. Well, good. Fine. He didn’t deserve to forget.

The surgeon put her hand in his, briskly professional. “Can you squeeze my fingers?” Cautious of the pain that threatened to spike, he tensed his fingers around hers. She nodded, satisfied. “Very good. No loss of function.”

A small sound escaped from Dorian’s throat, half pained and half relieved. It hadn’t occurred to Cullen to worry about that, but apparently it had to the mage.

“No strain for at least a week,” the surgeon was saying as she wrapped his arm in fresh bandages. “And in case you don’t have the sense to know what constitutes strenuous activity, that means no lifting, no holding shields, and no climbing ladders.”

The surgeon pinned him with a stern glare that would’ve made a Chantry Mother proud, and Cullen felt heat rise in his cheeks. He definitely would’ve tried to climb the ladder into his loft, if it weren’t expressly prohibited. “Yes, fine,” he grumbled.

“Hm.” The surgeon sounded skeptical. “I do also expect you to commit the wild indulgence of getting eight hours of sleep and three meals a day until you’re recovered. Think you can manage that, too?”

Cullen forgot to answer, because she was taking a healing potion out of her belt pouch; He felt himself tense as if it were a naked blade in her hand, and even though the vial was still corked, his nostrils flared in anticipation of the hateful smell. “No elfroot,” he growled. The last thing he needed was to get mired in another Kinloch episode.

The surgeon rolled her eyes and handed the vial to Dorian. “Get that down his throat at some point today. I have less ornery patients to tend to.” And with that, she left the two men alone again.

Dorian fiddled with the potion, considering, but he must have seen something in Cullen’s face that made him set it aside, much to Cullen’s relief. Instead, he stepped closer to the bedside and flourished his fingers with a spark of magic. “Is this preferable?”

“You’re a necromancer, Dorian—I don’t think I’m _that_ bad off, yet,” Cullen said dryly.

“It’s not as if I’ll make it worse.”

Privately, Cullen thought that he absolutely _could_ make the injury worse, and even if he didn’t, Cullen was the very last person on Thedas who deserved to benefit from healing magic. But Dorian was offering a fragile thread of trust, and Cullen found himself reluctant to snap it apart. “Very well, do as you like.”

With a scowl of concentration, Dorian hovered his hands over the bandages. His magic felt comfortably cool, like fresh air breezing into a stuffy room, though the usual pinch and tingle of healing was very slight. The magic washed over him in waves as Dorian tried to brute-force it, pouring himself into the spell to compensate for lack of skill.

After a minute, Cullen said, “You’re wasting a ridiculous amount of mana on this.” And not getting much of anywhere, he didn’t add.

“Well it’s mine to waste,” Dorian huffed.

“Stop, you’re going to drain yourself,” Cullen insisted. “You’re not responsible for fixing me. This isn’t your fault.”

“That’s debatable,” the mage grumbled, but he let go of the spell and pulled his hands away.

“What I did… it wasn’t just about the after-effects from the ritual. There are aspects you’re not aware of.” Cullen pulled in a deep lungful of air, and then took the plunge. “I’m still in withdrawal. Mostly that means headaches and nightmares, but sometimes… it distorts things a bit. I have trouble judging what’s real, even when I’m awake.”

“Withdrawal from what?” Dorian asked, and Cullen briefly wondered if he was being purposefully obtuse, but the frown line between his brows seemed sincere.

“Lyrium, of course. I went off completely when I resigned from my post in Kirkwall.”

Dorian eyes widened comically and he stared at Cullen in disbelief. “Why would you ever take lyrium? It’s _toxic_ for non-mages, not to mention horrifically addictive.”

Cullen almost laughed at his expression of befuddlement. “Dorian, where do you _think_ southern Templars get their abilities from?”

“Cassandra intimated it was a mental fortitude, Fade-meditation sort of thing,” he said, waving a hand in the air vaguely.

“For Seekers, yes, but they’re the elite. Templars are given regular doses of lyrium, starting even before they complete training.”

Dorian’s face quickly transitioned through shocked and horrified, and then into calculating as he arrived at the inevitable implications. He paced at the foot of Cullen’s bed. “So… you’re saying it was the _Chantry_ that turned them all into drug addicts. Not Corypheus.”

“We fought a literal army of Red Templars at Haven. How is it possible you still don’t know this?” he wondered. (Strange, to be able to speak of Haven without feeling the stranglehold of guilt, but for now this conversation took precedence over Cullen’s knee-jerk need to loathe himself.)

Dorian folded his arms defensively. “You’d be surprised the things no one bothers to explain to a suspicious foreigner.” He paused, letting go his mask of affronted dignity, and came over to perch himself on the chair at the bedside. “The withdrawal—is it dangerous?”

“Well… yes,” Cullen admitted. “I took it for twelve years, after all. And for the better part of my time at the Gallows, the Knight-Commander had me on three times the recommended dosage. It makes you feel so powerful, like you’re looking down on everything from a great height and nothing can touch you.” His throat tightened; he didn’t want to talk about the terrible things he’d done in Kirkwall, while Meredith kept him high and pliant. But Dorian stayed quiet, and so he searched for something else to fill the silence. “It’s funny, everyone always talks about the Champion like she’s the only Hawke the city ever needed—but it was _Carver_ Hawke who got me back down to a regular dose, so I could think clearly. If he’d never joined the Templars, I probably would’ve died beside Meredith, chained to her madness.”

“Then you joined the Inquisition, and Lavellan blithely came along and forced upon you another addiction,” Dorian said, his voice rough. He scraped his teeth over his lower lip, that too-perceptive mind racing. “There’s something else, no? You tried to convince me there were demons in your blood. I admit I’ve never been a lyrium addict, but I doubt that’s a typical symptom.”

He should have known he would have to talk about this, too. “I… was stationed in Ferelden’s Circle, when it was taken over by abominations. The Templars—my friends—were slaughtered.” He avoided Dorian’s gaze, forced the words out mechanically as if he were giving a mission debrief in the War Room. “The mages tortured me for days. They got very creative with their methods. It was my blood they used to summon the desire demon…”

A part of Cullen wanted to say more, wanted _someone_ to understand, but the words caught in his throat. How could he explain that the first time a demon makes you come, it’s absolute bliss? A terrible pleasure that sinks into every fiber of your being until you want to scream— _yes, take me, possess me, yes—_ except that giving up is death. Pleasure is death. And when you refuse, the horror creeps in, because desire demons are not known for their patience; they are easily frustrated and vindictive. By the fifth or sixth forced orgasm, bliss transmutes into dry agony, and you’re begging for it to stop, but your body is a traitor…

Dorian’s eyes had darted away, as if he were mentally piecing together a puzzle. “ _I won’t_ ,” he quoted softly. “Fasta vass.” His throat worked as he swallowed, as if to clear it. “Cullen. Have you ever had consensual sex?”

Maker’s breath, was this mage a mind _-_ reader, or was Cullen really _that_ transparent? The silence stretched too long. Cullen knew he should speak or Dorian would assume the worst—he could see him already fighting to keep his expression neutral—but the truth was mortifying. Cullen wished he were a better liar, so he could lie convincingly about this. Instead, he answered, “There was a woman at a Hightown brothel in Kirkwall who was very patient with me, and discreet.”

A small, pained noise escaped from Dorian. “I never meant to take you against your will,” he said, choking on the words as he forced them out. “I just wanted you to feel good. No, that’s not… I wanted to _be the one_ who made you feel good.”

“You did, you _do_ , that’s the problem—I can’t trust it. The pleasure is a snare I’m caught in.” He could see the confusion etched around the edges of Dorian’s frown. But how else could he possibly describe the bone-deep knowledge that anything good would be used as a weapon against him?

The mage said, “I don’t know how to fix this.”

Cullen scrubbed his face with his good hand. “Nor do I—all I know is, I’ve proven too weak to endure both. So it’s this, or the lyrium.”

“Not lyrium,” Dorian snapped, with such quick conviction that it surprised Cullen. “I will do whatever you need of me, but I won’t be responsible for you relapsing into a habit that destroys the mind.” The mage paused, fiddling with his rings uncertainly. “So… what exactly are you proposing?”

“I— well—” Cullen flushed and looked away. Was there a proper way to ask a man to keep fucking him senseless, despite how he’d followed their previous encounters with attempted acts of violence?

Dorian huffed, evidently impatient with his stammering embarrassment. “If you’ll be coming to me for relief, we ought to establish some sort of rules or… or guidelines about what you find acceptable _before_ you’re out of your mind with lust and ready to agree to anything. Can you at least tell me if the things I’ve done so far were all right for you?”

“At the time, yes, it was all very…” Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose, trying not to think about how achingly hard he got when Dorian spanked him. He cleared his throat. “Fine. It was fine.”

“ _At the time_ ,” Dorian echoed. “But not afterward, it would seem. How do you feel after?”

“It’s like… getting shoved off a pier into cold water. The compulsion vanishes, and everything else comes back all in a rush. I’m just myself again, and that’s—” He sucked in a breath, not wanting to admit what relentless, grinding misery it was to be _just Cullen_. “That’s good, of course, I know it’s better to be free of influence, but the transition is still… jarring.”

Dorian hummed thoughtfully. “I will endeavor to avoid any carnal acts that _after_ -Cullen might look back upon and view as particularly embarrassing.”

Cullen was not entirely successful at strangling the sad, needy noise in his throat. Despite the exhaustion of injury and blood loss, it had been more than a week now since the urge was last relieved, and Dorian speaking of _carnal acts_ was distinctly unhelpful. He _wanted_ Dorian to pin him down, and toy with him, and give him orders, and come inside him—even knowing how the humiliation would burn him later. Cullen brought his knees up and rested his feet flat on the bed; hopefully with the bed linens draped around him, the mage wouldn’t become aware of his nascent arousal.

Dorian rested a hand on his knee, the point of contact feeling oddly warm and heavy even through the blankets. “Cullen, the whole point of this discussion is that you needn’t suffer in silence. And you’d hardly be the first person in the world to become aroused during sexual negotiations.”

“I’m fine,” he snapped, his blush returning so furiously that he felt as if his face might combust.

“Don’t be stubborn. To heal, you need to be able to rest properly.” The mage paused and stared at him with a slight quirk of an eyebrow. “Unless you _aren’t_ hard enough to cut wood, in which case I could just go…?”

Cullen squeezed his eyes shut and growled his frustration. “No, you’re right—if we’re going to do this, there’s no reason to delay. Other than my cowardice.”

“You are many things, Commander, but _coward_ is not among them.”

Cullen put his knees down and lifted his bandaged arm to let Dorian pull the blankets back. His arousal was embarrassingly obvious where it tented the thin, white infirmary gown the healers must have dressed him in. He squirmed, not sure how this was supposed to work with the narrow bed and his injury, but Dorian tsked at him.

“Lie still. You heard the woman: no _strenuous activity_ for our dear Commander.” He managed to turn those words exceptionally lewd.

With practiced efficiency, Dorian rucked up the infirmary gown above Cullen’s hips and palmed his erection. For a moment, all Cullen could do was breathe through the tantalizing pleasure of Dorian’s clever hand rubbing and squeezing. But the strangeness of their new arrangement gradually permeated his thoughts. He’d been so terrified of the ritual putting him at Dorian’s mercy before; only now did it occur to Cullen that effectively saying, _get me off or I’ll kill myself_ was rather coercive.

“I— I don’t want to use you,” he stammered, struggling to express himself coherently with the incredible heat building below his stomach.

The mage laughed. “You’re honestly worried that _I_ won’t enjoy myself? Commander, I wasn’t joking when I said I’ve been lusting after you since Haven. You needn’t worry about my willingness.” His lips twisted into a lascivious smirk as his hand kept stroking Cullen’s cock. “Though perhaps you need more convincing of my level of enthusiasm.”

Dorian leaned down and flicked his tongue playfully over Cullen’s slit. The soft, wet tongue against his sensitive head cause a pulse of warm desire deep in his core.

“What are you— _oh Maker,_ ” Cullen cried as the mage swallowed him to the hilt. Hot, wet, suction… his mind reeled. Watching his hard cock vanish into Dorian’s mouth was the most intensely erotic sight he’d ever witnessed, and that alone almost drove him to the edge. His shaft glistened with saliva each time Dorian pulled up, and the mage was doing _something_ with his talented tongue that turned Cullen’s breaths into fast, shallow exhalations—“ah, ah, ah!”

Cullen was buoyant on a sea of sensation. When he felt that telltale tightening, he only barely had the presence of mind to warn, “I’m gonna come,” but Dorian kept sucking and hummed an assent. The vibration sent him crashing into a white-hot orgasm, his seed spilling into the mage’s throat.

******

When Cullen lapsed back into sleep, Dorian decided it was past time to get out of his blood-stained clothes and wash up, so he left the infirmary for a quick trip to his room. Their conversation had given him a lot to mull over, but the main thing was that Cullen had lived—and that Dorian would be allowed to help him stay alive and sane, at least for the foreseeable future.

For once, he was less concerned about Cullen and more worried about everyone else. It might already be too late to control the narrative. The surgeon didn’t strike him as a gossip, but he wouldn’t be at all surprised if the former Circle healers were at this very moment spreading the news of how the Altus had glued himself to the Commander’s side. An ex-Templar and a Tevinter mage made for a deliciously scandalous story; by this time tomorrow, half of Skyhold would likely believe Cullen was his blood thrall. (Which, despite Dorian’s efforts at distancing himself, was uncomfortably close to the truth.)

Well. It wouldn’t be the first time the _evil Tevinter magister_ was shunned.

As he climbed the stairs to the hallway where his room was, Dorian wondered if he might be a little in shock about the day’s turn of events. Cullen had opened up to him and shared some very personal, very painful details of his life. That had to be a good sign, no? Cullen’s desire for Dorian might be magically induced, but he’d decided to speak of such intimate information all on his own. So Cullen must feel _something_ for him, other than lust and loathing. Perhaps it wouldn’t be the literal death of him if Dorian allowed himself some small sliver of hope. The thought that they might someday be something _more_ gave him an effervescent, giddy feeling, and he fought to keep a stupid smile from claiming his face.

He came to a sudden halt outside his room: someone had nailed a sheet of paper to his door, like it was a fucking Chantry board. Upon closer inspection, he discovered the paper was a page torn from a book—from _Tales of the Champion_ , to be precise. In the top margin, the words BE CAREFUL were scrawled in messy handwriting.

What was this—a threat? A warning? Dorian scanned the page, and his heart turned to a lump of ice inside his chest.

_‘Mages cannot be treated like people. They are not like you and me—they are weapons, they have the power to light a city on fire in a fit of pique,’ the Knight-Captain declared._

There it was, laid out in black and white. No matter how sweetly they fucked, Cullen was never going to love him back, because Dorian wasn’t even a _person_ to him.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, I was definitely NOT supposed to spend this afternoon finishing another chapter... but I did. *shrug*
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's been leaving comments and kudos! This is all your fault.

Cullen felt uncomfortably exposed standing in the War Room without his armor. He’d argued his way out of the infirmary, but struggling into his usual half-plate was still beyond him with only one fully-functional hand. It didn’t help matters that Cassandra was clearly fighting the urge to ask him prying questions about his mental state. Leliana, at least, seemed content to let the issue go undiscussed for now; perhaps she saw no point in broaching it before the Inquisitor returned.

But there were other problems that couldn’t wait, and focusing on the practical concerns gave Cullen an anchor to cling to. “So what is to be done with Rylen?” he said.

“There’s no need to worry—I conveyed to him the necessity of discretion with regard to certain matters,” Leliana said, in a way that sent a sympathetic shiver of dread along Cullen’s spine. He did not envy anyone to whom the spymaster _conveyed_ something.

“And that’s… appreciated, Leliana, but it’s not what I meant. Rylen is a dear friend, and I know he believed himself to be defending me, but he smote one of our own people. Dorian would be well within his rights to request Rylen be relieved of duty.”

He lifted his gaze from the War Table to see Cassandra and Josephine looking at him with surprise, and Leliana nodding with something like satisfaction, as if this information was the missing piece of a puzzle she’d just solved.

“What?” Cullen said, confused. “Did no one know?”

“In the field, Pavus complains about a bit of rain for _hours_ ,” Cassandra grumbled, “but he gets struck with a holy smite by an ally, and says nothing?”

Cullen admitted that his memory might be faulty, so they sent a runner to fetch the healers’ apprentice. The young man, Federick, was perhaps seventeen or eighteen and painfully nervous to be appearing in the War Room for the first time, but he confirmed that the Commander’s office had clearly held the lingering buzz of a smite.

“And was Lord Pavus injured?” Cullen asked, keeping his voice neutral only with effort, as a strange surge of protective anger rose in him.

“He took some definite spirit damage, but… I’m not sure he noticed…? I tried to take him away for treatment, and I tried to get some elfroot tea into him, but he was very stubborn and…” Federick babbled nervously, “and I know I shouldn’t have, not without his leave to do so, but Lord Pavus really was in a bad way—”

“Calm yourself, son. What are you saying?”

Federick wrung his hands together, looking sheepish. “Ser, I may have… waited until he fell asleep in your recovery room and healed him.”

Josephine had mercy on the poor apprentice and guided him out with reassurances that he would not be punished for, in essence, doing his job.

It was agreed that Rylen would be given command of Griffon Wing Keep, an assignment that neatly straddled the line between reward and punishment—significant responsibility that doubled as a banishment to the middle of the desert. After Adamant, they’d left the majority of their siege equipment there with a skeleton crew, rather than attempting to drag it up the mountain to Skyhold. But with their ranks swelling again, it was time to turn Griffon Wing into a fully staffed outpost with its own company of soldiers.

“In any case,” Cullen said, “it’s obvious I need to start grooming someone as a possible replacement, in the event that I become incapacitated.” Rylen was a damn fine training officer and remarkably efficient with everyday logistics, but he lacked Cullen’s keen interest in military strategy; he was Maker-sent as a second-in-command, but not an ideal successor.

Cassandra scowled disapprovingly as if she wanted to argue, but all she said was, “Do you have a candidate in mind?”

“Knight-Captain Briony has been running increasingly complex field missions, and seems to have a talent for both tactics and leadership.”

Leliana’s lips twitched, as if something about his suggestion amused her. “And Briony has good rapport with the mages.”

“Yes, that will help, as we further integrate the mages with the troops.” Briony hailed from the Ostwick Circle, and rather than joining Lord Seeker Lambert when he nullified the Navarran Accord, she’d spent the past year escorting Ostwick’s mages home to their families. Those that had no homes to return to showed up at Haven two weeks after the Conclave explosion, along with Briony and the dozen Templars who’d stayed loyal to her vision.

A small, petty part of him hated Briony. She embodied everything thirteen-year-old Cullen aspired to become—the dream that was forever poisoned for him when Kinloch fell.

Cassandra shifted her weight, clearly uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. “Do you wish to be replaced, Cullen?”

“I have… made arrangements that should allow me to continue in my post without any further interruptions.” Heat threatened to rise in his cheeks, and he firmly refused to think about the nature of those arrangements. “But given recent events, I think we can all agree it would be naïve not to prepare for the worst.”

******

Two days passed before a runner brought a note for Dorian to the library. In Cullen’s typically loquacious fashion, it simply read: _at your earliest convenience –C_

It was just past sunset, much earlier than when the Commander usually left his work for the day—Dorian had often spotted candles still burning in Cullen’s windows past midnight—but he doubted he was meant to rendezvous in the office. Fasta vass, location was the sort of detail one might bother to put in a summons. After a moment of indecision, he decided to try the guest hallway first, where Cullen had been assigned temporary accommodations until the surgeon cleared him for climbing his ladder.

As luck would have it, there was only a single door with light shining from the crack at the bottom, and Dorian gave it a polite knock. (This was going to be terribly awkward if he’d guessed incorrectly, and some Orlesian lord answered instead.) But the door flew open and Dorian was unceremoniously dragged inside, and then Cullen’s hot mouth was on his like a starved dog on a juicy steak.

As Dorian returned the ravenous kiss, hope surged unwanted in his chest—stupid, pointless, painful hope, as if his heart had missed the raven informing it of Cullen’s hatred for mages. This was a terrible mistake, confusing Cullen for a lover, even if only in the privacy of his own mind. Dorian already knew he would break himself against this man like waves upon a rocky shore, but what else could be done? He needed Cullen to live.

 _Put the feelings away,_ he chided himself, _this is just sex._ The sweet ache beneath his sternum was dangerous, because _Cullen_ was dangerous—the man had rejected and physically attacked Dorian twice now, and instead of learning his lesson like a sensible person, here he was pinching Cullen’s lower lip between his teeth and sliding his hands under the Commander’s tunic to explore the planes of his well-muscled back. Cullen was unstable and brimming with fear and rage, and this bond they had was much more likely to end in murder than marriage vows. Yes, Dorian’s common sense had clearly fled the castle.

Cullen fumbled with the complex buckles and ropes bedecking Dorian’s robes. He was on the edge of frantic, as if he feared Dorian might run away if he didn’t get him naked quickly enough. “Please, _please,_ ” he breathed, almost too quiet to hear despite their closeness.

Dorian took a firm hold of his shaking hands and planted a quick kiss to one of his palms. “Listen to me, Cullen: if you want to beg because it’s enjoyable, you may, but you don’t _have_ to. So long as I have your sober consent, I will _never_ deny you what you need. I’ll not turn you away again unless you’ve chosen it—this I swear to you.”

Cullen seemed to calm a little; he closed his eyes and took a deliberate breath. “It’s hard to think.”

“I know, but you don’t have to right now.” He ran his thumbs soothingly over the soft skin on the insides of Cullen’s wrists, careful to avoid the edge of the bandage on his left arm. “I’m here to take care of you.”

With one expert yank and a roll of his shoulders, his robes pooled around his feet, leaving him in nothing but the fitted black hose that served as undergarment for this style of outfit. He helped Cullen out of his tunic, and they crashed back together in a renewed heat full of deep kisses and questing hands.

“Can I… suck your cock?” Cullen asked, blushing furiously—and honestly it was _adorable_ how tentative he was with such a request. “After the recovery room, I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“I _did_ promise to give you anything you need. And who am I to deny such a pretty request?” Dorian shucked the last of their clothes, then sat on the edge of the bed and tossed a pillow on the floor between his feet. “For your knees,” he explained, when the other man hesitated.

Cullen claimed his post between Dorian’s spread legs and leaned forward to brush his mouth over Dorian’s growing hardness. “I might need… ummm… direction?”

Cullen kneeling, looking up at him with wide doe-eyes and wet, parted lips… _oh_ , it was a good thing Dorian’s dignity had already eloped with his common sense, because Cullen asking to be _instructed_ made his cock visibly twitch.

“I’ve always been told I’m an excellent teacher,” Dorian replied, helpless to stop his own smirk.

He was careful to keep his hips still as the other man took him into his mouth. What Cullen lacked in experience he made up for with unfettered enthusiasm, laving and sucking and following Dorian’s every suggestion. Under such dedicated ministrations, it didn’t take long at all for him to get almost painfully hard and flushed with need. When he could no longer resist the temptation to weave his fingers through those blond curls, Cullen moaned wantonly as he ceded control.

The thought of the Commander eagerly swallowing his seed almost sent him over the edge, but sane-Cullen would not thank him for that later. So he pulled firmly on Cullen’s hair to disengage, saying, “I’m close; lie down with me.”

He guided Cullen up onto the bed and lay them both down on their sides. Dorian slicked his hand with the grease spell and took their cocks together in his grip, hot and slippery and hard against each other.

“Is this all right?” he murmured.

Cullen pressed closer as if seeking a kiss, but then just moaned against Dorian’s lips. They rutted together, fucking into Dorian’s hand, and Dorian nosed his way to the base of Cullen’s neck so he could suck a bruise into the sensitive skin there. (Because he wanted to make this pleasurable for Cullen, he told himself, not because he wanted to leave a mark.)

“Tell me I’m good,” Cullen whispered.

Dorian worried the praise kink might be one of the things that after-Cullen would hate himself over, but in accordance with Dorian’s own rules, he could not withhold it. “You’ve been so good for me today,” he said in the low, soft tone Cullen seemed to enjoy most. “I’m so proud of you every time you ask for what you need.”

Cullen’s thrusting turned frenetic, and small, needy noises escaped from between his lips with every breath. Dorian rolled them both so Cullen was under him, a better position for claiming control.

“Are you going to be a good boy, and come for me?” The heat and pressure of Cullen’s cock against his was maddening, but Dorian firmly held back his own release as he pumped and twisted his slick hand around them both.

“N—now?” Cullen stuttered. “Can—can I now?”

“Cullen: _come,_ ” he ordered.

“ _Ooooh!_ ” Cullen’s eyes flew wide and his hips arched off the bed as he painted his own stomach in thick threads of seed. Dorian was coming, too, adding to the mess as hot pleasure spiked through him, but his own orgasm felt almost like an afterthought—all he wanted to do was stare down as Cullen unraveled beneath him, this precious beautiful man who belonged to Dorian. This was so _right_ , it felt fated, and _oh_ how he wanted to bend down and kiss Cullen tenderly and tell him how loved he was.

Instead, he pulled away and sat back on his knees. Apparently his self-preservation was _not_ in a menage-a-trois with his common sense and his dignity, thank the Maker. Dorian collected all those feelings, shoved them inside the Don’t Think About It Box inside his mind, and firmly slammed the lid.

Cullen’s breath evened out and he rolled away to bury his face in the quilt with a miserable, mortified groan.

Dorian stood and dampened the cloth from the washstand. “At least let me clean you up, amatus. Lying there sticky with our collective spend can’t be helping.” He mentally kicked himself for letting the word _amatus_ slip out.

“I can do it,” sane-Cullen growled, snatching the cloth from him. At least he wasn’t swinging fists, Dorian supposed.

He turned away from the bed to give Cullen some small sense of privacy and retrieved his robes and hose from the floor. _Keep it together_ , he told himself. Like an overstuffed travel chest, the lid on his Don’t Think About It Box did not want to stay closed, and the tangled mass of emotions threatened to burst back into the forefront of his thoughts. He just needed to get dressed and out of the room as quickly as possible.

“What are you doing?” The Commander’s voice was so flat and devoid of emotion that Dorian really couldn’t guess the motive behind the question. When he glanced back at the bed, Cullen was lying with a blanket pulled over his pelvis for modesty, an unreadable look in his eyes.

“No need to wear out my welcome,” Dorian quipped. “I rather like my throat being uncrushed. It’s a very nice throat, you see; I picture it in marble.” He ran his fingers down his neck in a gesture meant to draw the eye.

“Dorian, you—you _saved_ my _life_. I’m not so ungrateful as to attack you again,” he grumbled.

Dorian laughed, bright and brittle. Cullen really had _no idea_ , did he?

“You recall that mission you sent us on to the Fallow Mire? Three days of wading through muck, and swarms of bugs, and shambling corpses everywhere—not even the fun kind of shambling corpses!—and that horrid swamp smell that’s _never_ coming out of those clothes. _Three solid days_ just to reach the fort. And after we rescued the soldiers? As soon as Ellana’s back was turned, one of them spat in my face.” He kept his tone light, matter-of-fact. “So, you see, I’m rather accustomed to an absence of gratitude.”

Cullen frowned, seemed to think on this. But after a pause, all he said was, “There’s a _fun kind_ of shambling corpse?”

“Of course!” Dorian grinned. “The kind where _I’m_ in control of the shambling.”

He was fully clothed now, feet jammed back into his tragically unfashionable but warm southern-style boots. He’d accomplished his mission; he could leave and avoid whatever unpleasantness was sure to follow. Instead, he hesitated. Tentatively, Dorian perched at the foot of the bed, still ready to depart the second Cullen’s tolerance ran out.

“So. How long can we expect your freedom to last, then?”

Cullen heaved an audible sigh. “Twelve hours, give or take, until I start to feel the first niggling. A day or two until it drives me to distraction. Much less time if I try to, ah, take care of the problem myself.”

Dorian’s lips twitched with amusement. “Commander, are you saying you think of me when you pleasure yourself?”

Cullen’s face flushed bright red and he muttered, “Maker’s breath.”

“I apologize, I shouldn’t tease.”

Cullen threw an arm over his eyes, as if to block out the world. “Right, because what I need now instead is to be patronized,” he snapped. “Mustn’t handle the poor, soft-minded ex-warrior too roughly, after all. I’m not your bloody china doll, mage.”

Dorian waited a moment to see if the sudden foul mood would pass, but when Cullen gave no sign of wanting to retract those words, he said calmly, “I do believe that’s my cue to go.”

Cullen didn’t stop him this time.

******

Dorian retreated to the arcane library deep in the bowels of the keep, where no one save Ellana might think to look for him, and she wasn’t due back for several days. The narrow room was rather claustrophobic and still quite dusty despite his half-hearted attempts at cleaning, but it was private. And conveniently near the closet where Ellana stashed her liquors of questionable origin.

Alone with himself and a bottle of—he squinted at the faded label—something that burned when he swallowed, Dorian took out his least favorite book page in all of Thedas. He’d meant to burn it right away, but somehow the page had migrated into his pocket instead. Sitting in the armchair he’d dragged into the room for his and Ellana’s use, Dorian unfolded the hateful sheet of paper and smoothed the creases against his knee, so he could torture himself with reading it again.

Dorian had always known that love was a dangerous proposition. If there’d been a time in the naivete of early childhood before he learned this lesson, he could not recall it. Wanting to have sex with men was one thing; it was fodder for salacious gossip, sure enough, but not so terribly uncommon. Plenty of Tevinter men did their duty to their wives while keeping a body slave on the side to bugger when the mood struck. Wanting to _love_ men was the real problem, though—this was the perversion that Halward was so intent on stamping out of him.

Not sex. Love.

For seven years since Rilienus, Dorian had kept himself safe from dangerous emotions. But now his walls were down, all his mental defenses compromised—Cullen laid siege, and Dorian crumbled.

No, don’t think about it. But his alcohol-buzzed mind took him to those memories, anyway.

_Rilienus handed him a letter stamped with the seal of the Imperial army. “I’ve been accepted to the officer training program for the magic division!”_

_Dorian held the letter open delicately, as if it might combust and singe his fingers. Dread coiled in his stomach, a stark contrast to his lover’s bright-eyed enthusiasm._

_They were standing in Dorian’s room in the Alexius estate. Gereon and Livia had taken a nonchalant approach to Dorian’s gentlemen callers, and he’d gradually relaxed his paranoia about sneaking them in and out in the dead of night. The last few months, it had been just Rilienus, and Livia had shattered the illusion of secrecy by intercepting them to invite the Laetan for dinner. But now, holding the acceptance letter in his hands, Dorian realized he’d grown careless and complacent. An unexpected opportunity that would just happen to send his lover into a war zone? This had Halward written all over it—not that he could tell Rilienus, who was so excited and proud of his accomplishment. Rilienus had always struggled with self-confidence, and this would crush him._

_“I’ll make more in two months than my family has ever seen in a year,” he was saying._

_Dorian wanted to say,_ stay with me, I love you, we can run away together _. But when he opened his mouth, the words that came out were, “Seheron is a charnel house, and you’re not exactly a battlemage, Ri.”_

_Hurt pooled in those beautiful brown eyes as his grin faded. “Why can’t you just be happy for me? This is a good opportunity, but I suppose that doesn’t matter to an Altus. You’ve never had to worry about where your next meal’s coming from.”_

_Dorian bristled. “Dead men can’t spend coin!”_

The fight had turned nasty. Rilienus stormed out, and the next week he’d left for training. Dorian decided it would be best to cut off all contact. A recruit could easily die in a “training accident,” but if their relationship was already over, there would be no need for further nefarious interference on the part of Halward.

It was too little, too late. Rilienus deployed to Seheron, and six months later, he was dead.

Now the paper in his hands was a book page, promising a different source of pain. He traced his thumb down the rough margin where it had been torn from the binding, and decided it didn’t matter. So his sentiment would never be requited—so what? This changed nothing; Dorian _would not_ lose another person to pointless death.

He would protect Cullen. Even if that meant slowly destroying himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is apparently all about my head-canons for my fave off-screen characters. I really hope Briony gets screen time in DA 4.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't stop writing this. It's a problem. SEND HELP
> 
> BTW, Dorian's pining song is definitely "Blindfold" by Morcheeba: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UJSvNLvcwhg

Lavellan was back from the Exalted Plains and there was much Inquisition business to discuss, but the moment Dorian entered the War Room, Cullen suddenly found it difficult to concentrate.

There had been more sex, and more negotiating in the sober periods between. Dorian insisted they settle on a watchword (“maleficar,” thanks to his morbid sense of humor), though Cullen couldn’t imagine a situation in which he’d be level-headed enough to use it. And yet, the gravity with which Dorian approached their arrangement eased Cullen’s anxieties.

Trusting that he could count on Dorian actually helped relieve the frantic intensity of his need. When the desire started to build, it was easier to temporarily set it aside, confident in the knowledge that he would be able to sate it later. The things he wanted to do with the mage were still frighteningly intense, and he still felt pathetic and ashamed afterward, but at least he was no longer displacing his anger at his own weakness into violence aimed at Dorian.

Progress, of a sort.

“…Commander?”

The weighted silence told him that Lavellan was expecting an answer to a question he’d missed, and that the whole room was now aware his mind had wandered. He rubbed the back of his neck. “My apologies. Yes, Inquisitor?”

“Your opinion on what to do with Magister Pavus?” Lavellan repeated.

“Well. He attempted to mind-control and abduct a member of the Inquisition with blood magic,” Cullen said. “We can have a gibbet constructed by tomorrow morning.”

Josephine let out a dainty sigh. “Really, Commander, your hyperbole does you no credit. We cannot execute a foreign state leader.”

“I wasn’t joking,” he grumbled. “We’ve killed plenty of Venatori without backlash from the Imperium.”

Dorian’s sigh was significantly more tinged with exasperation. “Yes, but the Magisterium has disavowed the Venatori, whereas my father is still an active Magister and a key supporter of the Archon. Josie is right—it would create a political shitstorm.”

“So… other ideas?” said Lavellan.

“Exile would have a certain delicious irony to it,” Dorian offered, fiddling thoughtfully with the curl of his mustache. ( _Maker, that’s distracting._ Cullen forcibly dragged his gaze away from the mage’s lips _._ )

Lavellan said, “We _could_ exile him, but from what exactly? The Inquisition doesn’t actually have power over the borders of Ferelden and Orlais, and ‘don’t come back to the Skyhold’ sounds pretty weak as an official punishment.”

“Unfortunately,” said Josephine, “we cannot afford to alienate the Orlesian nobility by overstepping our authority at this time. It could disadvantage us when we attend the Winter Palace.”

Leliana flashed a smile like a knife-cut. “Queen Anora, however, owes us a favor for resolving the situation with the rebel mages. And since the crime did take place in Ferelden, a formal exile may be possible.”

Lavellan nodded. “We keep the magister locked up for now, until we get permission to officially exile him on behalf of the Queen.”

Josephine made a note on her writing board. “I’ll draft the request immediately.”

“Great. So. Other business? Are we gonna try for this alliance with the Qun?” The Inquisitor glanced around at her advisors.

Before any of them could answer, Dorian snapped, “The Qunari do not make alliances. They view no world power as legitimate, outside their own.”

“Dorian, your presence is no longer required.” Leliana gave him a pointed look.

“He’s right, though,” Cullen said. Dryly, he added, “Once we invite them south, we may find it surprisingly difficult to convince them to leave.”

Lavellan chewed her lip. “On the other hand, if we refuse their help before even meeting with them, at best we come off sounding racist, and at worst we’ll end up with shiny new enemies. And we already have enough of those.”

Cullen flushed a little at her rebuke, but Dorian rolled his eyes. “My dear, it’s not the horns that bother me—it’s the part where they like to collar us and sew our mouths shut.”

“What else is new?” She shrugged and wiggled her fingers in the air. “ _Nobody’s_ happy an elvhen mage got the glowy hand.”

Leliana’s expression turned especially blank, which Cullen suspected meant she was Having Feelings and carefully filtering them before they reached her face. “I agree it would be unwise to refuse them outright. The information they’ve fed to us through the Iron Bull has been quite valuable so far.”

“In Kirkwall, we had the Arishok and his men camped on our front doorstep for years, so I can say with some experience that the Qunari are deeply disinterested in diplomacy,” Cullen said. “But… I have to admit that playing along for now may be our best chance of sussing out what they actually want.”

So it was agreed that Lavellan, the Iron Bull, Varric, and Cassandra would be leaving the next day for the Storm Coast. As the meeting drew to a close, Cullen managed to exit the War Room without either gravitating toward Dorian like a moth to a flame, or awkwardly ignoring him—both of which he felt the urge to do, with roughly equal intensity—and so he left with a sense of accomplishment. Perhaps things _could_ get back to normal, or at least some semblance thereof.

He returned to his office with a surprising lack of dread. The cleaning staff had done their level best to remove all evidence of the bloodbath, and while they weren’t miracle workers, they did well enough. The wood surface of his desk would need to be sanded down and refinished, but that was easily hidden beneath paperwork; the pool on the floor had been scrubbed away, leaving only a slight discoloration. It wasn’t as if it never happened, but at least visitors who didn’t know where to look wouldn’t be distracted by any obvious signs of past violence.

The work itself also induced less stress than he might have expected. Knight-Captain Briony kept absconding with stacks of paperwork and returning them mostly finished with a sheet of notes on top. Cullen couldn’t find it in his heart to be irritated—her questions and suggestions were insightful, and her assistance saved him time. He managed to fill the remainder of the afternoon with what work she’d left to him, but after that he really had no excuse to avoid his personal correspondence any longer.

With a sigh, he retrieved the small stack of letters from their position of exile at the far corner of his desk, and began to read.

_You asshole,_

_I can’t believe you let my sister almost get herself killed again_. _As if she hasn’t done enough heroic nugshit for one lifetime. It’s a good thing she made it out (of the FADE?! seriously) in one piece, or Fenris would be on his way south right now to chest-fist the lot of you._

_I also can’t believe I had to hear about it from Varric—what the fuck is wrong with you, learn how to write some Blighted correspondence, it’s not that hard. See? You just string some sentences together with informative content, such as: Aveline and I are pretty much holding Kirkwall together with twine and empty promises, and Sebastian is now threatening to send us an invading army as a Summerday gift. As if he’s the only person on Thedas who’s still feeling a little sore about that whole Chantry explosion, civil war thing._

_Also? Could someone point out to our favorite choir boy that Anders FLED THE CITY four years ago, and what the fuck does he even think he’s going to accomplish by forcibly occupying us? I’d ask you to send him a strongly worded letter, but since that would cause you physical pain, you can just send us some troops instead. I’m generous that way._

_Thanks a lot for leaving me to deal with this fucking mess,_

_Carver_

Cullen chuckled. After nearly a decade of friendship, Carver’s irascible sour mood felt more like a balm than a bee sting—one of the few comforts Kirkwall had given him.

He made a note to discuss the allocation of troops with Briony tomorrow. This was the sort of operation that ought to go to the War Table for the Inquisitor to decide upon, but Cullen suspected Leliana might push for a tighter alliance with Sebastian. Starkhaven had resources to offer; Kirkwall had none. But Cullen was the commander of the armies, and he’d traded away his obedience, and if he wanted to send help to a friend he wasn’t going to _ask permission_ first. The part of him that would have asked before was gone now.

The decision left him with a smug satisfaction, though the feeling only lasted until he picked up the next letter, addressed to him in a familiar hand. It was yet another message from Mia.

His older sister still wrote to him like clockwork every month, as she had for the past eleven years since their parents’ deaths during the Blight. The news would be both welcome and painful—how nieces and nephews he’d never met were growing, how her husband’s carpentry business fared, greetings passed on from Branson and Rosalie, even bits of gossip from South Reach. A heartwrenching reminder of the family he could never return to now that he was a hollowed-out lyrium addict, defiled by monsters and then made monstrous himself under Meredith’s tutelage.

Cullen honestly couldn’t imagine why Mia kept it up; it must feel like dropping letters down a bottomless well, given how rarely he responded. He’d sent her only two letters in the past year, one when he was leaving Kirkwall and the other a few weeks after arriving at Skyhold, both with essentially the same contents: _I’m still alive, here’s my new mailing address._ What more was there to say? Plenty, Cullen supposed, except none of it was suitable for telling his sister.

As he often did before reading Mia’s letters, he took out a scrap of paper and wrote the truth:

_Dear Mia,_

_I can’t tell what’s real anymore, and the torture feels as fresh now as it did in my weeks recovering in Greenfell. I’ve been bound to a mage with blood magic, and if I don’t fuck him three times a week, I start going mad. I tried to kill myself again, and this time I almost succeeded._

_I lost my faith. I’m not sure it was ever real to begin with._

Cullen set his quill down for a moment, then picked it up again and added:

_The brother you knew has been dead for eleven years, and you’ve been writing to a stranger this whole time. Sorry I never told you._

Without waiting for the ink to dry, he laid the letter on the hot coals of the brazier in the corner of his office and watched the paper burn to ash.

Thus fortified, Cullen told himself he was now calm enough to face the gentle probing and exasperation he was sure to find in Mia’s most recent attempt at reaching out. But when he opened the letter, his illusion of calm shattered.

_…I know if I ask, you’ll demur and say it’s not a good time, there’s a war going on, &c. So by the time you read this letter, we’ll already be on the road. We’ve bought passage with a well-guarded merchant caravan, so you needn’t worry…_

Cullen read through the letter, start to finish, a second time, certain he’d misunderstood. Then he frantically checked the date, panic spreading through his chest.

Mia would be arriving at Skyhold within the week. And she would _see him like this_.

******

Ellana took the book from Dorian’s hands and flopped beside him on the couch. “You know you could just talk to Varric.”

“I’m working up to it,” Dorian grumbled.

They were in her chambers, spending what little time they had catching up before she turned around and left on the next urgent mission. He had told her what happened with Cullen—partly to impress upon the Inquisitor that she did not need to strip her Commander of his position, but also partly to confide in a friend about his impossible romantic entanglement.

“I haven’t read this.” Ellana flipped through Cassandra’s copy of _Tale of the Champion_ , stolen from the Seeker’s loft by Sera at Dorian’s request. “Is the Gallows stuff bad?”

“It’s… not flattering.” Yes, in the end Cullen had chosen to side against his insane Knight-Commander and prevent an Annulment, but only after six years of turning a blind eye to a variety of stomach-churning abuses. Perhaps even committing them himself.

Varric could likely provide some additional clarity on that issue, which was exactly why Dorian hadn’t asked him. He was half convinced that _clarity_ would only confirm his worst suspicions. Bad enough when it was only subtext between the lines of a book; he had no desire to turn Cullen’s past abuse of mages into irrefutable fact. Learning the full extent of his hatred would do nothing to sway Dorian from his current course. The knowledge would only lodge in his heart like shards of ice—or at least, that’s what he told himself whenever he felt that burning need to uncover the truth.

Ellana chewed her lip. “How worried should I be about your safety?”

“My dear, I was kicked out of all the finest Circles in Tevinter as a boy—for _winning duels_ against other highly trained apprentices. I think I can handle one grumpy ex-Templar.”

“So what’s the plan?”

“What do you mean? I’ve just told you the plan.” Dorian reclaimed the book; he should ask Sera to return it before Cassandra noticed its absence from her collection.

Ellana rolled her eyes. “Unless you intend to stay within a day’s ride of Cullen for the _rest of your lives_ , we’re gonna need a long-term solution.”

Dorian wasn’t sure how much she knew about the lyrium addiction or other contributing factors—which he’d carefully avoided mentioning in his retelling of the events—so he decided it would be best to sidestep the details. “The solution we have, impermanent though it may be, should suffice to get us through until Corypheus is defeated. There will be time to experiment after.”

“Yeah, but it means I can’t take you in the field. And Solas… Solas isn’t back yet.” She twisted her fingers together, worried and unsure in a way that seemed a stark contrast to her usual overconfidence. “If he’s coming back. I mean, he said he just needed some time alone, but…”

“Oh no!” Dorian exclaimed with exaggerated horror, though it was really only half a joke. “Please tell me you haven’t fallen for your crotchety old mentor.”

“He’s not _that_ much older than me!” she protested.

“He calls you _child_ ,” Dorian countered. “It’s weird, darling.”

“He doesn’t call me da’len anymore, and he’s very…” Ellana cleared her throat, blushing slightly. “Very _fit_ under those robes.”

“This is a catastrophe,” he groaned. “I do not need the mental image of naked Solas doing naughty things with my best friend.”

“I can’t help but feel that’s a little hypocritical, given what you and Cullen did _in my bed_. And his office. And the infirmary. And—”

“Yes, yes, I take your point.”

“Anyway, you sure I can’t talk you into coming along to the Storm Coast?” Ellana batted her lashes.

“Even were it not for the magic bond situation, I can’t be trusted to act diplomatic when it comes to the Qun. Seheron is a bit of a sore spot for us Vints.” Dorian’s throat tightened; this was edging dangerously close to a topic he had no wish to discuss with anyone ever. Driven by his usual obsessive need to know, Dorian had acquired a copy of the field report on Rilienus, which turned out to be a massive mistake—it was _not_ better to know the man you loved died slowly and horribly, he’d discovered too late.

So of course, now was a _perfect_ time for Cole to turn visible and make his presence known. “Rilienus, skin tan like fine whiskey, cheekbones shaded, lips curl when he smiles.” Softly, Cole added, “He would have said yes.” 

Dorian felt his face go blank. “Cole, poppet… the next time you consider spelunking around inside my brain? Please just stab me with a dagger instead. It would hurt less.”

 _He would have said yes_. If Dorian had found the courage to share how he felt, Rilienus would never have left, would never have died. Dorian killed him with his cowardice. He’d always blamed himself for putting Rilienus in Halward’s path, but now he knew it was his fault twice over.

Cole visibly wilted. “Oh! I made it worse again. I didn’t mean to make it worse.” The spirit-boy wrung his hands together. “Why are your hurts so hard to help?”

“I’m talented that way,” Dorian quipped.

Luckily, he was saved from further compassionate invasion of privacy by the arrival of a runner summoning him to the Commander’s office. How the runner knew to find him in the Inquisitor’s private quarters was a mystery Dorian chose not to interrogate. Ellana kindly reserved her knowing smirk for after the runner departed.

******

By the time a knock sounded against his door, Cullen had managed to peel off most of his armor—the pieces scattered across the floor of his office—and wedged himself into a corner. The walls felt nice. Uldred would never allow him a corner to cower in, so it meant he must not be in Kinloch. He pressed harder against the stone and mouthed the words _come in_ , but no sound emerged.

The door opened anyway, and immense relief washed through him when it was Dorian who appeared in his field of view, crouching on the floor in front of him. Cullen pushed off the stone and squirmed forward to flop against Dorian instead. The mage swayed and adjusted to a kneeling position as he caught Cullen’s weight, very nearly knocked over at the surprise delivery landing practically in his lap.

“Sorry,” Cullen muttered as he buried his face in Dorian’s robes. He was too wrung out from terror to bother searching for the embarrassment he ought to be feeling.

Tentatively, the mage wrapped his arms around him. “What is this? What’s happened?”

Cullen grunted, unable to form the words to explain. Dorian felt warm and solid, and almost definitely real. Still, he should probably check. “You’re not a demon, are you?”

“No.” He paused and then added lightly, “Though if I were, I’m curious why you think such a question would help to unveil it. Demons can lie, you know. We really ought to work on your demon identification skills, my dear.”

Cullen snorted at the superfluous application of logic. “Definitely the real Dorian.” He pressed closer into the mage’s embrace, needing reassurance even if a part of him screamed not to trust it. “They held me sometimes. The demons. Gave me food and water, and held me, and convinced me I was rescued so it’d be more fun to hurt me later.”

“You say the most horrifying things.” Dorian’s hand traced soothingly up and down Cullen’s spine.

He shouldn’t ask for this, this wasn’t part of their arrangement. Dorian had agreed to help relieve the urges from the ritual—not to be a dumping ground for all the hideous shit rattling around inside Cullen’s skull, clawing at the edges of his mind. Cullen knew he should stop, but he couldn’t find the strength to move away.

“Can I see?” He didn’t understand the question for a moment, until he felt Dorian’s fingers gently prising the crumpled letter from his fist. There was a pause as the mage flattened the paper and read it. “I’m afraid I have no siblings—you’ll have to explain why this news has you curled in the corner.”

Cullen filled his lungs with a great, onerous effort. “Mia has this idea in her mind of who her brother is. But now she’s going to find out what I really am.”

“And what is that?”

“Broken beyond redemption.”

Dorian sighed. “I wish you would not be so cruel to yourself. You’ve survived more than enough cruelty already.”

Cullen shook his head in denial; the mage just didn’t know. “All the things I’ve done, all the things I failed to do…”

“If you start listing your regrets, I will smack you,” he said, his tone incongruously gentle. Instead of smacking, Dorian’s elegant fingers carded through Cullen’s hair, pressing against his scalp. It felt _wonderful_. Was he allowed to feel this? It was just Dorian, so maybe he didn’t have to worry about that right now.

Cullen shifted slightly. His body was responding to their close proximity even though sex was the last thing on his mind. The arousal was uncomfortable and part of him wanted Dorian to fix the problem, except then the mage would leave and that thought was intolerable. Dorian was the lifeboat keeping him afloat on the bottomless sea of Kinloch memories.

“I’ll need some guidance from you, Cullen. I’m not certain it’s a good idea for us to engage in carnal activities when you’re in such a state.”

“No, it’d feel so much worse after,” he mumbled into Dorian’s shoulder. “Can’t we just stay like this a while?”

Dorian’s breath hitched, but his voice was soft and steady when he said, “Of course, amatus. We’d stay like this forever if you asked.” After a full minute of silence, he added, “I would, however, propose that we move this operation to a softer surface. Your floor is murder on the knees.”

Cullen snorted with amusement, because it was just so very _Dorian_ to undercut his own sincerity with a quip about comfort. “Next time I plan to have a mental breakdown, I’ll make sure to be more considerate with the setting.”

“I’d appreciate that,” Dorian said loftily. “Now: can you handle the ladder?”

Later, Cullen would likely be mortified at the quantity of gentle coaxing that was required to get him disentangled from Dorian, off the floor of his office, and up into his bed chamber. With no hesitation, Dorian curled up on the bed with him, both reclining against the headboard. Cullen felt a strange flood of gratitude that he hadn’t had to ask for this, that the mage just knew to stay somehow.

After a minute of silence, Dorian tilted his head back, eyeing the ceiling speculatively. “It’s not so much that you have a hole in your roof—more like you’ve got a bit of roof getting the way of your hole.”

“Mrmph?” Cullen replied incoherently. His eyelids were already heavy with exhaustion.

Dorian’s fingers rubbed across the nape of his neck. “Never mind, amatus. You rest now.”

******

Cullen woke with the sense that he’d slept—really _slept,_ solidly, for hours in a row without nightmares hounding him. The sky through the hole in his roof was still black velvet flecked with stars, but it had been early when he and Dorian…

Right. _Dorian._ That explained why he was almost uncomfortably warm: they were both tucked under the covers, with the mage practically plastered against Cullen’s back, one arm snugly wrapped around Cullen’s midsection. He had no memory of how they’d gotten into this position. It was surreal; Cullen hadn’t woken up with someone since… ever? No, that wasn’t right—he’d shared a bed with Branson when they were very young. But never as an adult with a lover.

Still mostly asleep, Dorian muttered against the back of his neck, “You’re gonna be late, Ri.”

“It’s not yet dawn,” Cullen murmured back. “No one’s late for anything.”

The sound of his voice must have roused the mage to full wakefulness. As he felt him tense, Cullen became aware of two things: Dorian’s erection was pressing into the cleft of his ass, and the mage wasn’t the only one with morning wood. He couldn’t remember the last time he woke up half-hard because of a person he actually wanted, and not because he’d been dreaming about the desire demon raping him.

Dorian’s arm was unnaturally still where it wrapped around Cullen’s waist, as if he were afraid to move. “How are you feeling?” he said, voice rough and low from sleep, and if Cullen hadn’t been aroused before that sound would’ve been enough to get him there.

Cullen hummed, drowsily considering his answer. “Better. Although, horny as a teenager… _Maker_ I need you in me right now,” he complained, grinding his ass back against Dorian’s cock, and eliciting an audible gasp from the mage.

Now the mage’s hand moved, clutching at Cullen’s thigh, tantalizingly close to his prick. “You did so well last evening,” Dorian crooned in his ear, “letting me hold you when needed it.”

A soft whine escaped his throat. The praise was almost painful as it settled down inside; he tried to hold onto his guilt that he ought not to be burdening Dorian with such things, but it was weak in the face of Dorian’s approval.

The mage propped himself up on his elbow, a thoughtful expression pulling at his brows. “Cullen… do you think it would help with the, ah, jarring return to sanity if we tried… you inside me?”

Cullen blinked. “Is that something you do?”

“Of course,” Dorian said with a wave of his hand, as if the concern were a gnat.

He’d never thought about it before as a possibility, but now that such a thing was on offer… _oh Maker_ he wanted it, he wanted to be inside Dorian any way he could. He wriggled around to face the mage and yanked him into a blistering kiss, all hot tongues and teeth.

After a minute, Dorian pulled away with a breathy laugh. “I’ll take that as a _yes_. Clothes off; on your back.”

Cullen fumbled with his shirt, eager to comply. It’d been excruciating to admit how much he wanted to follow orders in bed, fully sober of the spell’s influence, Dorian calm but implacable. _If you can’t give me permission, Cullen, I’ll stop doing it._ Somehow, Cullen had forced the words out, knowing despite the embarrassment of the negotiations that he would need this later. And _oh_ it was worth it now—the weight of his responsibility lifted, no decisions to worry over.

“Hands over your head,” Dorian commanded. “Palms against the headboard. Excellent—now keep them there. Be a good boy for me, and you’ll get a reward.”

Later, he would chafe at the notion of being called a _good boy_ when he was, in fact, a thirty-year-old man… but for now, he desperately ached to be Dorian’s good boy. It was strange, having to concentrate on not moving his hands while Dorian explored his body with fingertips and tongue, teasing all his sensitive places, until finally that sinful mouth kissed down the length of his cock. Cullen sensed a small burst of magic and raised his head up—one of Dorian’s arms stretched behind him, and even though Cullen couldn’t see, just knowing that Dorian was preparing himself sent a shock of desire straight to his core.

Still fingering his own hole, the mage suckled on the tip of Cullen’s cock, and he dropped his head back onto the mattress, dizzy with want. But then Dorian froze and pulled away, tsking like a disappointed Chantry Mother; after a moment of confusion, Cullen realized he’d put a hand on Dorian’s head without meaning to. He snatched back the misbehaving limb and pressed his palm hard against the headboard.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

The mage smirked. “So contrite. But you know what they say here in the south: spare the rod, spoil the child.”

Dorian used his free hand to deliver a light slap to Cullen’s balls—s _tinging_ pain, radiating into his core, and he wasn’t sure whether he was writhing to get away from the sensation or writhing for more. Dorian waited just long enough to gauge Cullen’s reaction, and then his smirk widened. He slapped again: one, two, three times in quick succession, and Cullen was _wailing_ and his cock was so hard he felt like he was going to explode.

Cullen was still struggling to process the overwhelming flood of pleasure-pain when Dorian reared up to loom over him, knees planted on either side of his hips, slick fingers stroking grease over his cock. Cullen babbled, “Yes, please please, yes…”

Guiding his cock with one hand, Dorian slowly lowered himself onto Cullen. It wasn’t the same as being inside a woman—the delirious heat was alike, but Dorian was _tight_ , and when the mage started riding him, the sight of his swollen prick bouncing with each motion was… _Maker preserve me_ so hot. Cullen couldn’t help thrusting up to meet him, even though he had little leverage with his hands pressed against the headboard.

It was incredible—Dorian towering over him in all his glory, their bodies joined at the hips, the way Dorian threw his head back and half-lidded his eyes in bliss. How could Cullen ever be worthy of this?

******

Dorian steadily impaled himself on Cullen’s cock, determined to focus on the delicious stretch and fullness, instead of on the lie he’d told. As lies went, this wasn’t a terribly significant one—Dorian _had_ been on the receiving end before… with Rilienus, and never again since. But those sorts of feelings, dangerous feelings, _I love you I want you inside me_ feelings, they were all safely locked away in the Don’t Think About It Box, Dorian assured himself. He was still in control.

Cullen made obscene little noises— _oh oh oh_ —every time Dorian moved, and it wasn’t hard to tell where his gaze was lingering. Dorian trailed his hand slowly across his own chest and down his abdomen, showing off, until finally his fingers stroked teasingly at his cock, a visual display that made Cullen’s eyes fly wide.

He quivered, holding himself back, hands still pressed obediently above his head. “Please Dorian, please, I want to touch you, I’ll behave…”

Dorian smiled down at him indulgently. “Very well. You have permission to move your hands.”

Those calloused hands immediately flew to Dorian’s thighs, stroking almost reverently over his skin. Cullen caught his lip between his teeth as he slid his hands up and found a firm grip on Dorian’s hips. Then he gave a hard thrust, bottoming out inside Dorian, and now Dorian was the one gasping for air, awash in sensation.

Dorian’s physique might be chiseled like a marble statue, but Cullen was a specimen of raw strength, so when he reached up and flipped Dorian onto his back, there really wasn’t much he could do aside from blink in surprise at the sudden reversal of their positions. Or the fact that Cullen had managed to execute the maneuver while still inside him.

“ _Oooh_ —you’re being terribly naughty, you know,” Dorian groaned, as Cullen ploughed into him enthusiastically. “And right after you promised to behave.”

Cullen flashed that lopsided grin of his. “You’ll have to punish me later.”

Dorian was supposed to be performing a service—just taking the edge off, so the blood magic didn’t drive the Commander mad. But now Cullen was fucking him with wild abandon, as if he wanted to crawl inside Dorian’s body and live there, as if he wanted to pound Dorian so deep they would both forget they were separate people. This wasn’t casual at all, and Dorian’s control of the situation had vanished, and he’d never before been so aroused and so terrified at the same time.

Cullen was making a promise with his body that his mind definitely would not keep, and Dorian wanted it to be real _so badly_ that tears stung in the corners of his eyes. Overwhelmed with emotion, he panicked and tried to shove Cullen away. “Stop, stop it. _Maleficar!_ ”

Cullen quickly pulled off him to sit back on his heels, and Dorian scrambled off the bed. Cullen’s lungs were still heaving like a blacksmith’s bellows from the exertion, but his eyes were wide and bewildered as he watched Dorian snatching clothes off the floor.

“Are you all right?”

“No,” Dorian snapped.

“Did I hurt you?”

To Dorian’s complete mortification, the tears began to spill down his cheeks. “ _Yes._ ”

Cullen made a frustrated noise in his throat, looked away, and grabbed his still-rigid erection. He jerked off with a sort of mechanical precision that seemed both ridiculous and vaguely horrifying. Dorian could only watch in disbelief as Cullen came with a soft grunt.

“Right, so long as the important business has been taken care of,” Dorian said scathingly. He scrubbed at his traitorous, leaking eyes.

Cullen climbed off the bed, his movements clumsy and uncoordinated in the wake of his orgasm. “That’s not why I—”

“Oh, please, let’s not pretend this is anything more than an elaborate set-up for _milking_ the Commander of the Inquisition so the Inquisitor’s brilliant fucking ritual doesn’t drive you to carve yourself open again.”

“If you’d just—”

“Calm down?” Dorian guessed, his tone venomous as he wiped at his wet cheeks again with the back of his hand. “Well excuse me if my messy feelings are inconveniencing you, I find them rather inconvenient myself sometimes, but sadly for both us, we’re rather permanently stuck with each other. So I’m afraid you’ll just have to learn how to tolerate it, Commander—I am a _person_ , after all, I can’t shut it off…”

“For the love of Andraste, will you once in your life _shut up_ and let me get a word in?” Cullen bellowed.

Dorian clamped his jaw closed with an audible clack of teeth and glared at him. A tense silence stretched for several seconds. When Cullen didn’t take the hint, he snapped, “Did you have something you wanted to say, or is this just a test of my patience?”

“We’ve established that the spell’s coercion recedes for some time after I, uh, release.” Cullen flushed and stumbled over the words. “So… so this is me. Whatever happens now, it’s real. It’s my choice.”

“Yes, yes, I’m fully aware, now that you’ve gotten your rocks off, you’re quite free to lambast me to your heart’s content—”

Cullen closed the distance and shut him up with a kiss.


	11. Chapter 11

Cullen’s lips pressed gently to his, and it was _everything_ Dorian wanted, and for a moment he fell helplessly into the kiss. But the feeling in his chest was like shards of glass grinding together—he hadn’t known Cullen was capable of such exceptional cruelty as this.

Dorian shoved him away. “Don’t mock me!”

“Mock—? I wasn’t… Dorian, I just want to kiss you.”

“I certainly believe you want _something_ out of it.” Dorian was furious; he was exposed now, Cullen _knew_ , and as soon as Cullen could see the collar he immediately yanked the leash? Of course, he should have expected nothing less from a templar, accustomed to controlling mages. “I’d have thought such manipulations were more the province of Leliana, but congratulations, Commander—very convincing.”

“What…” He made a frustrated noise in his throat. “You’re the one who pointed out that I’ve never shared something _real_ with anyone. I thought we could try…”

“Oh, so I’m an experiment for you? That makes it much better,” Dorian replied, voice dripping with sarcasm.

He was still sniffling and leaking tears like some homesick apprentice, and he hated himself for this ridiculous display. He’d managed to get his clothes on, if not fully fastened; his boots would take too long to lace, so he threw them down the hole into the office below, and did his best to angrily flounce down the ladder, which was decidedly non-optimal for angry flouncing.

Cullen, infuriatingly, followed him down.

He shoved his feet into his boots and yanked on the laces. “Read the room, Cullen—that was me making a dramatic exit. It rather ruins the effect if you trail after me like some lost mabari.”

“I’m just trying to talk to you. Be reasonable.”

Cullen might as well have slapped him. _Be reasonable_ , Halward’s voice echoed in his mind, the phrase a mainstay of every shouting match over Dorian’s unwillingness to marry. “Fasta vass, I can’t do this,” he muttered more to himself than to Cullen, and he slammed the door behind him as he left the office, in case the Commander hadn’t gotten the message to stop following.

Ellana was right; this situation was unsustainable. Their agreement in the infirmary was not even two weeks behind them, and already Dorian had lost control and made a scene. Cullen’s teasing kiss left him feeling wounded, cut to ribbons inside, death by slow internal bleeding. Corypheus better step up his timetable for world domination, because Dorian was not going to be able to keep this up much longer.

There was only one way out of this mess: he would have to design a spell to safely sever the bond. And for that, he’d need to consult his father.

By the time Dorian finished his daily ablutions and gathered and reviewed the notes he’d taken back when he’d first looked into the ritual, morning had arrived in full force. He didn’t dare attempt breakfast, though; anxiety at the thought of facing Halward had his guts tied in knots.

The walk out of the main keep and descent into the dungeons felt more like he was shuffling off to his own execution than to visit from the fortunate side of the prison bars. The guard on duty simply nodded to him, unsuspicious of his presence, and at any other time this would have registered as a pleasant shock. But for the moment he was too busy trying to convince his stomach that he really didn’t need to spit bile on the floor.

“Dorian!” Halward leapt to his feet as soon as his son stepped into view. “You’re alive! It’s been _weeks_ and no one would tell me if the counter-ritual succeeded.”

“Don’t get too excited, Father,” he drawled, “I’m back to my usual disobedient, scandalous self.” He dropped the wooden chair he’d brought with an emphatic _thunk_ and arranged himself upon it in as dignified a fashion as he could, considering the damp, grimy environs.

“Always so combative,” Halward observed. “I only want what is best for you.”

“No, you want what is best for _you_ —for your fucking legacy! Anything for that!” Dorian squeezed his hand into a fist, quivering with rage, but he managed to swallow the rest of his hurt and betrayal instead of letting the words spill out. “That’s not what I’m here to talk about.”

“As you wish,” Halward allowed, as if he were indulging a child.

Dorian inhaled through clenched teeth, tugging on the reins of his temper. “I have questions about the counter-ritual, and I understand that you were instrumental in the designing of it.”

“Of course, son, I couldn’t let you stay like—”

He held up a hand to forestall any more empty platitudes. “Your motivations do not interest me. I want to know about the spell mechanics.”

He consulted his sheaf of notes and began to interrogate his father on the finer details of the blood magic that had been done to him. Halward prevaricated only a little, more of a knee-jerk aversion to straightforward speech than any actual intent to deceive Dorian. After perhaps twenty minutes, he had the answers he’d come for—though the whole picture was not what he’d anticipated.

Dorian leaned back in his chair, scowling.

“So you’re saying a piece of his essence was _literally_ used as the mortar to seal my psyche back together. I have part of someone else’s soul inside of me, permanently.” No wonder Cullen felt driven to be close to him; the specifics of the ritual meant he interpreted the attraction as sexual, but in truth he was being drawn to the missing part of himself that now lived in Dorian.

“You’re whole and well again,” Halward said. “Would you rather be wasting away to nothing?”

“I’d rather the other participant not end up on the brink of madness if we’re apart for even a few days!”

Halward shrugged. “What does it matter? Let the Templar go mad.”

“ _Excuse me?_ ” Dorian hissed.

“Lavellan used her commander, yes? I met him, you know—quite the uncouth southern barbarian. Easily replaced, I’m sure.”

Dorian pinched the bridge of his nose. “You knew this would happen.”

“You are _my son_. You are far more important than some mage-hating Chantry puppet.”

“Cullen is no one’s puppet,” he growled.

Halward scoffed. “He was a sacrifice to bring you back after that little tantrum you threw during the ritual in Redcliffe. Don’t tell me you’ve grown attached to the lamb after it was slaughtered.”

Dorian felt a cold rage bubble up inside him. “I suppose it never occurred to you that having someone else’s soul filling all the cracks in my mind might, in some way, affect how I feel? Who am I kidding—you’ve never once before cared how I felt about anything. Why start now?”

His white-knuckle grip was crumpling the note pages, and it was all he could do not to incinerate them in a fit of fury. He leapt off the chair and stormed down the passage toward the exit.

“Dorian, where are you going? Don’t be childish!” Halward’s voice could be heard calling after him. At the door, he broke into a run.

******

Cullen couldn’t shake the awful sinking feeling in his gut. He didn’t know exactly where he’d gone wrong, but he understood one thing for certain: he’d ruined things with Dorian.

He tormented himself remembering every unkind word and deed he’d ever aimed at Dorian, all the reasons why the mage would never be able to trust him. He’d been a fool to think that they might… well, he couldn’t articulate to himself what he’d been hoping they might become. He didn’t even know for certain if he could want Dorian without the blood magic forcing him into it. And now he’d never find out.

He expected to last a week, or perhaps two, before the need became intolerable again. He would hold out as long as he could before going back on the lyrium; he had no doubt that lyrium could make this unnatural desire feel small and far away, the same way it made _everything_ feel small and far away, but his pride resisted even as his rational mind knew there would be little choice soon enough. In the time he had left, he should think of a way to break the news to Cassandra. It would hurt to disappoint her.

Cullen spent the next couple days hiding in his office, though he found a good excuse: the reports on red lyrium smuggling routes were starting to come in, and soon he’d be able construct a strategy for cornering Samson. Even just cutting off their supply lines would be a major blow against the Red Templars, but the victory he truly craved was nothing short of Samson’s unequivocal defeat. Samson had let his lyrium addiction—and perhaps a desire for his life to have purpose again—steer him down a path of utter madness.

Cullen needed lyrium, and he needed purpose. It chilled him to the bone to wonder if they weren’t exactly the same. If fate had dealt him a different hand and Cassandra never offered him this position, could it have been _him_ decked in red lyrium armor at the head of a false god’s army? Cullen _hated_ Samson, because he saw himself reflected there.

 _I’d rather die than kneel to Corypheus_ , he promised himself, hoping it was true.

The clank of full plate armor announced the arrival of Knight-Captain Briony for her afternoon check-in. She snuck a glance at what he was working on. “Emprise du Lion? We gonna need to establish a presence?” As she spoke, she slid a stack of unfinished requisitions forms off the desk into her arms.

“Stop stealing my work, Briony.”

“Stop trying to do everything yourself, Cullen.”

He sighed. “In answer to your question, it’s too early to say. I haven’t pinpointed the source yet.” A withdrawal headache had been steadily building since dawn, and tracking red lyrium caravans wasn’t exactly helping to keep his mind off his condition.

Still, it was not unpleasant to discuss possible strategies with his captain for a while. Later, when she’d gone and he was standing over his desk, examining a diagram of troop movements, one of the office doors opened. He managed to hide his surprise when he saw it was the mage who’d let himself in.

“What are you doing?” Dorian said, his tone flat, inflected with only the slightest hint of exasperation.

Cullen gave him a steady look. “What are _you_ doing?”

“Apparently, I’m safekeeping your common sense, since you’re clearly not keeping track of it yourself.”

The lyrium headache spiked suddenly, like an awl piercing his skull; Cullen pressed his thumb hard against the bony ridge of his eyesocket, trying to dispel the sensation. “I haven’t the faintest idea what that’s supposed to mean.”

“It means we’re on day three and you haven’t sent for me.”

Those words seemed to suck all the air from the room. “I… I thought we were done with that.”

The mage huffed. “Cullen, I’m not going to abandon you to a downward spiral of insanity just because I got a little over-emotional during our last session.”

 _Session_ was such a cold, clinical word. Is that how it would be now between them?

Dorian locked the doors, pushed him against the wall, and sucked him off. No clothing was removed, and Dorian said very little, even when he didn’t have a mouthful of Cullen’s prick. He didn’t touch himself, nor allowed Cullen to touch him. When it was over, he patted his chin dry with a handkerchief, fixed his mustache, and pecked a quick kiss on Cullen’s cheek. Then the mage was gone; service rendered, presence no longer required.

For once, it wasn’t shame that made Cullen want to weep.

In the morning, the scouts reported sighting a merchant caravan coming up the eastern pass through the Frostbacks, due to arrive at Skyhold around midday. When the hour drew near, Cullen went down to the lower courtyard to await his sister’s arrival. Joining him were Cassandra, whom he’d told, and Josephine, whom he had not informed but who was evidently determined to make it her business anyway.

“They’re hardly visiting dignitaries,” Cullen grumbled. His nerves were like a tiny sun burning beneath his sternum. “For Andraste’s sake, Josephine, my sister’s husband is a carpenter.”

The ambassador graced him with an unrelenting smile. “They are guests of the Commander of the Inquisition, and will be treated with decorum appropriate to their status as such.”

Cullen was so preoccupied with his internal panic at the imminent arrival of his sister that he jumped when a hand touched his shoulder. Dorian had walked up behind him, quiet as a cat, his fingers now weaving through the bear fur of Cullen’s mantle. “At least you left the armor off,” the mage commented, the corner of his mouth lifted in wry amusement.

He had no intention of explaining why he sometimes avoided his own armor, not right now at any rate. “Why are you—”

Dorian cut him off with a raised eyebrow, as if daring him to complete the question. His hand slowly withdrew from Cullen’s shoulder.

“That’s not— I mean— of course I want you here, but…” Cullen cleared his throat and lowered his voice, painfully aware of Cassandra and Josephine pretending not to listen. “Is everything all right… with us?”

“We can talk later, if you wish, but don’t worry about that now.”

It was odd, and _incredibly distracting_ , to have the mage standing so close by his side in the courtyard in full view of anyone who cared to look. Maker, he wanted Dorian to drag him off to the barn, bend him over a hay bale, and plough him until he couldn’t walk straight. Their ‘session’ the previous evening didn’t seem to be lasting very well. Cullen took a deep, measured inhale and then let it out slowly, trying to focus his mind.

The merchant caravan arrived in a flurry of activity, Inquisition agents descending upon the carts to unload goods ordered all the way from Denerim. Cullen had assumed the _we_ in Mia’s letter meant her and her husband, but when he spotted her amidst the bustle of merchants and wagons and hired guards, she was accompanied by a boy who could only be her eldest, Stanton. Cullen’s uncertainty swelled, and a not insignificant part of him wanted to flee the courtyard before he was spotted. How would a normal person greet their sibling after a long separation? A person who hadn’t been reduced to ghoulish damaged remnants of their former self. _Just act normal_ , he admonished.

So he raised his hand and shouted, “Mia!” to grab her attention, stepping forward from his phalanx of supportive friends.

Her head snapped up, and even at a distance he could see the light of recognition in her eyes, and then she was smiling and _running to him_ , and before he could really process what was happening, they were embracing. Mia had filled out some since her willowy teenage years, her form more solid and statuesque now. But she _smelled_ the same—lavender and yarrow—and what a strange thing that was to remember after seventeen years.

“Cullen!” she exclaimed, her chin tucked onto his shoulder.

“You made it,” he replied stupidly.

“Look at you,” she said, taking his hands in her own and stepping back to do just that. “I have so often tried to picture what you’d look like as a man grown. It is strange to finally see it with my own eyes.”

“And you look just the same as I recall, of course.”

“Liar,” she said, eyes sparkling with humor.

Could it be this easy, to fall back into their old pattern of gentle teasing after so long apart? The reunion felt so surreal he wasn’t entirely sure he was awake instead of dreaming. “No trouble on the road?”

“None. It seems _someone’s army_ has been systematically clearing the Hinterlands of bandits.” Mia’s amused gaze flicked behind him before returning to his face. “You didn’t need to bring an entourage just for us, brother.”

“Ah, yes, forgive me.” Cullen had completely forgotten to introduce the others. “May I present Ambassador Josephine Montilyet, Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast, and Lord Dorian Pavus.”

Mia exchanged greetings with them all, and then put her hands on her boy’s shoulders to firmly draw him forward. “And this is Stanton.”

Stanton was ten years old and had the Rutherford blond curls, but with blue eyes that must have come from his father. He was a bit thin, but Cullen had also been scrappy at that age, so there was no telling yet how he’d turn out after the growth spurt of puberty hit him. The boy muttered a barely audible “hullo” and tentatively held out his hand, which Cullen shook. Andraste preserve the poor lad, he’d apparently gotten the Rutherford social awkwardness along with the hair.

Josephine arranged to have their travel bags brought to their guest suite. “If you need anything at all, please don’t hesitate to ask—I am at your disposal. It was lovely to meet you both,” she said, and then with a teasing smile aimed at Cullen, she added, “I won’t intrude upon your reunion any further.”

“Well, _I_ will,” Dorian quipped.

Cassandra choked down what would have been a disgusted “ugh.”

As Josephine smoothly departed, Cullen rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly feeling nervous beneath his sister’s expectant gaze. What were they supposed to do now? “So. Um. Are you hungry?”

“Stanton is always hungry.”

“Ma!” the boy protested indignantly.

“It’s almost noon, so they should be serving lunch in the mess hall—”

“Oh, no,” Dorian cut in, turning them all toward the stairs to the upper courtyard, “the mess hall simply won’t do, my dear Commander. We’ll take lunch in the great hall—otherwise we’ll have no chance of scandalizing the Orlesians. Which, needless to say, is a favored hobby of mine,” he added as an aside to Mia.

“Oh?” Mia gave the mage an amused look.

“If there’s one thing Fereldens and Tevinters can agree upon, it’s _Orlesians_ ,” he joked.

This caught Stanton’s attention. “Are you from Tevinter, m’lord?”

“Please, just ‘Dorian’ is fine—and yes, I am Skyhold’s resident _evil Vint_ ,” he answered with a smile and a deliberately comical twirl of his mustache.

Dorian was bringing out the full charm offensive. If Cullen wasn’t so nervous, he might even be jealous at how quickly his nephew was taking to the mage. But any jealousy was quite buried under gratitude at having someone to cover his own social ineptitude.

Soon, they were seated at one of the excessively lavish tables in the great hall, neither Mia nor Stanton even attempting to hide their awe as they gazed around at the towering space. The midday sun made the stained-glass windows at the far end glow with color; Cullen was so accustomed to Skyhold, he’d forgotten how impressive it could seem to a newcomer.

“Our repair efforts are ongoing, but the keep has good bones,” Cassandra was explaining. “And most importantly, it is very well positioned from a tactical perspective—highly defensible.”

Dorian rolled his eyes. “No one wants a lecture on siege defenses.”

Cassandra huffed and replied in a clipped tone, “Why are you here, Dorian?”

“Why, because I want to be the first to hear the embarrassing stories about Cullen’s awkward childhood! I’d think that was obvious.” The mage grinned like a fiend, then rested his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand, attention back on Mia. “There are embarrassing stories, yes? You must share them.”

“Well.” Mia folded her napkin with feigned thoughtfulness, a spark of mischief in her eyes. “There was that incident in the Hughes’s old barn…”

“Please, no.” Cullen buried his face in one hand. He’d needed five stitches after that—his very first scar.

“Or the time Penny Donnellan—”

“No, Mia!” he protested, laughing and flushing at the same time. No one _ever_ needed to know about Penny Donnellan.

Mia gave a mock sigh. “That’s my brother, still so serious.”

Cullen looked away, his eyes suddenly burning. Was she simply projecting her memory of her brother onto him? Or could she really see aspects of the person he’d been _before_ , still lingering in him now? Oh, how he yearned for that to be true.

******

“Come along, tiny Rutherford.” Dorian had offered to show the library to Cullen’s nephew, sensing that Cullen and Mia would need some time alone to acquaint themselves with each other as adults.

“I’m not a Rutherford,” Stanton protested. “Our family name is Murray.”

Dorian smirked and touched teasingly at Stanton’s hair. “Oh, you’re a Rutherford, all right.”

Stanton ducked his hand and threw him a reproving look, though it didn’t say _I’m afraid to be touched by a mage_ so much as _I’m too old to be petted like a toddler_. Despite the narrowly avoided embarrassment, he followed close beside Dorian as they climbed the stairs to the second floor of the rotunda.

“It’ll be less crowded once the renovations to the mages’ tower are complete, or so I hope,” Dorian explained. “You’re welcome to borrow from the shelves, just steer clear of any materials that seem to be in use.” He waved a hand toward a table buried in open books and loose sheets of notes, by way of example.

Fiona kept a tea service in the library, and Dorian availed himself of it. He added tea leaves and cold water, and wrapped his hands around the teapot to heat it to steeping temperature. Even that tiny show of magic made Stanton gasp.

“Oh, I know,” Dorian joked, “if only my poor mother could see me now, lowering myself to using my magic for _domestic_ tasks. Scandalous.”

While the tea was steeping, he dragged a second chair into his favorite alcove so they could both sit. Stanton was quiet, not unlike his uncle, and Dorian felt a pang in his chest when he tried to imagine Cullen at this age, before the Templars had gotten their claws into him. No, best not to think too deeply about Cullen, not after what he’d learned from Halward—Dorian would have to share what he knew sooner or later, but one crisis at a time was enough. For now he had a tiny Rutherford to entertain.

Dorian poured the tea and they settled together in the alcove to drink it.

Almost immediately, Stanton asked, “Is it true what they say about mages ruling Tevinter?”

He snorted. “In the Imperium, we pretend we’re superior to everyone, even our own people. My homeland should be a cautionary tale, not a source of inspiration.”

Stanton sat back in his seat with a dejected look. “Oh.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Dorian scrambled, not wanting to steal the wind from the boy’s sails. “For all our faults, my people have many virtues. We are laden with history and culture—you can walk down a side street and find nothing built during the modern ages. The library at the Circle of Vyrantium where I studied is larger than Skyhold’s great hall…”

Stanton listened, enraptured, as Dorian described all the things he missed most about home. The night markets in Minrathous, crowded and colorful and bursting with undiscovered treasures. Food with enough spices to numb the tongue. And yes, even the Circles—centers of education and scholarship, instead of thinly veiled prisons. The lad was insatiably curious, and talking about himself _was_ one of Dorian’s favorite pastimes.

It all seemed to be going fairly well until Stanton’s cup of tea froze solid in his hands.

Dorian blinked. Suddenly, the boy’s keen interest in Tevinter made much more sense. Stanton looked from the cup to the Vint, eyes widening when he realized there was no chance Dorian hadn’t noticed. He opened his mouth but no words came out, as if his brain was desperately churning for a believable cover story.

Though Dorian had many more years experience concealing it, he was also quietly panicking inside. Cullen Rutherford, Ser Mages-Aren’t-People, had an untrained mage hiding in his family. _Kaffas_.


	12. Chapter 12

“Stanton.” Dorian set aside his own tea, still steaming, and folded his hands in his lap. “Is there something you’d like to tell me?”

“I…” The poor lad’s mouth opened and closed like a suffocating fish. “I— um—”

“You’re not in any trouble. Where I come from, this would be cause for throwing an extravagant celebration.”

“But we’re not there,” he said in a rush, “we’re _here_ , and I can’t— I just can’t be—”

“A mage,” Dorian finished for him, very gently.

Stanton’s cheeks reddened, proving he had also inherited the Rutherford tendency to blush.

Smoothing his mustache, Dorian collected his thoughts. “I won’t say everything’s going to be all right because I can’t promise it will. But I can tell you that I spent a significant portion of my youth desperately trying to hide who I am from my parents, and I wouldn’t wish that sort of shame and self-loathing on anyone. You’ll never be happy until you accept what you are—I wish someone had told me that when I was your age.”

“And you’re happy now?”

Dorian flashed him a slightly pained smile. “I’m not hiding anymore. I’m not living a lie, and that’s important to me. _Happiness_ … can be elusive.”

“Because of Uncle Cullen?”

“What.” He squawked and then reached for his tea to hide his surprise. “What makes you say that?” Apparently even ten-year-olds could tell he was moonstruck for Cullen now. Fasta vass.

“Oh.” Stanton squirmed in his seat. “Nothing.”

“Right. _Anyway_. You don’t have to decide anything just this second, but do consider it. There are things you must learn; if you wish to study in secret, I’ll help you, though there would be significant advantages to practicing openly.” Dorian rose from his seat, retrieved _An Introduction to Elemental Theory_ and _A Brief History of the Disciplines_ from the shelves, and handed the books to Stanton. “Take my chair. If anyone questions your choice of reading material, tell them I left the books lying around and you were bored.”

After a moment’s hesitation, the boy shifted over into Dorian’s velvet-upholstered armchair. He looked small and lost, clutching the books to his chest as if they were a lifeline. Dorian felt a tightness under his ribcage, like a hand was squeezing his heart. He ran his thumb over the bands of his rings, not knowing what to make of this sudden ache; children were really not Dorian’s forte.

“I’ll leave you alone for a bit, if that suits you. Do a spot of reading, have a good think. We can talk again any time you like.”

Stanton just nodded, staring down at the books in his lap. Dorian took that for a dismissal.

As he hurried down the stairs out of the library, Dorian seriously considered his options. He didn’t want to betray Stanton’s trust, but at the same time, he had absolutely no fucking clue what to do with an untrained prepubescent mage hiding in plain sight in the south. In the end, he decided there was really only one sensible choice: run off and tattle on Stanton to the _actual_ adults.

He burst into Cullen’s office to find the Rutherford siblings sitting across from each other, with the chessboard set on the desk between them. They had glasses of red wine; Cullen’s was almost full, but Dorian quickly rectified that situation by snatching it up and draining it himself.

“We have a problem.”

Cullen raised his eyebrows. “Is the problem an over-abundance of wine?”

“Now is not the time for your sass, Commander. I don’t know how else to do this, so I suppose I’ll just rip the bandage off, as you’re so fond of saying here in the south.” He paused to take a breath. “Stanton has magic.”

Cullen went very still, and all the color drained from his face.

Mia, on the other hand, cried, “Oh, thank the Maker!” and briefly covered her face with her hands in what appeared to be _relief_.

“That,” Dorian admitted, nonplussed, “is not the reaction I was expecting, I’ll be honest.”

“He’s been trying to hide it for months now. He thinks we don’t know, but this far into summer, there are only so many times you can discover mysterious dustings of frost before a conclusion must be drawn,” Mia explained. “You have no idea what a comfort it is to hear he finally _told_ someone.”

In the absence of any vacant chairs, Dorian perched himself on the corner of the desk. “Do you know when he first manifested?”

“It’s hard to guess precisely. For years all he talked about was growing up to join the Templars like his uncle.”—Cullen winced at that—“And when he stopped, we assumed it must be the schism with the Chantry, or the news that Cullen himself was leaving the Order… it seemed natural that he’d lose interest as he got older and the reality proved murkier than the fantasy. We didn’t think much of it at the time.”

Dorian nodded. “Well, the good news is, he’s fully aware of his power. Children who are too young to understand what’s happening to them, or old enough to be in denial about it… that’s when you get unfortunate accidents. The fact that he’s managed to, more or less, conceal his status from you for possibly as much as half a year is an excellent sign of his natural degree of control. I want to assure you, Stanton’s in no immediate danger—”

With no warning, Cullen shot up from his chair and stormed out of the office. Mia stared after him with an absolutely gutted expression, no doubt leaping to all sorts of conclusions about why her brother the Templar might react that way.

Dorian pushed off the desk to follow Cullen, but he paused beside Mia’s chair. “It’s not what you think—he’s not angry, I promise. He just needs some space to process this.” Dorian rested a hand on her shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “And… I don’t mean to overstep with regard to your son, but I’d keep pretending, for now. Let him tell you on his own, when he’s ready.”

Mia patted his hand with her own. “Thank you.”

She rose to let herself out through the door leading to the main keep, while Dorian followed the Commander onto the ramparts. He found Cullen leaning on the parapet with his arms braced against either side of a crenel gap, his head hanging from his shoulders.

“Are you all right?”

Cullen actually _growled_ at him in response.

Dorian clamped down on the wave of irritation that threatened to come spilling out of his mouth. “I know you weren’t prepared for this, but there’s really no need to go stomping out of your office like a rampaging druffalo.”

“We’re not in Tevinter,” Cullen snapped, pushing away from the parapet to face him. “You can’t possibly understand what this means for a child in the south.”

“It means he’ll need to be trained,” Dorian allowed. “But your sister must have known this when she chose to bring him here. To Skyhold. Which just happens to be full of _free mages_.”

“You don’t—” Cullen gulped at the air as if he couldn’t get enough of it, as if his lungs were failing him. “The _things_ I’ve done. How can I look at my nephew and not imagine those same horrible things happening to him? I would have hurt him with _these hands…_ ” Cullen stared at his own palms with a look of revulsion, as if he had two disgusting monsters attached to the ends of his arms.

“Oh, Cullen.” Dorian felt powerless in the face of such massive anguish. He drew Cullen into his arms, and the man sagged into him.

“It’s too much,” Cullen whispered against the collar of Dorian’s cloak. “I want to die.”

Those words felt like a dagger to his heart. He could not face them head-on, so he threw up a shield made of glibness, instead. “Terribly sorry, but the sweet release of death is not on the menu this evening—we’re fresh out of ingredients, you see.”

Cullen snorted, weakly amused.

“Is this only about Stanton, or is it everything else, too?”

Cullen paused, as if commencing some kind of rigorous internal analysis. “Everything. All of it together.”

“Including the compulsion?”

He nodded, and Dorian frowned. They should have had another day until the side effects gained enough strength to seriously impact Cullen’s emotional state. He ran his fingers through the hair at the back of Cullen’s neck, teasing out the curls. “If you need me, you know you have only to ask.”

Cullen made a small whining noise, but kept it trapped in the back of his throat. He nosed tentatively at Dorian’s cheek, then pressed their mouths together, lips parted as if begging for Dorian’s tongue. In a moment of terrible betrayal, Dorian’s body _surged_ into the kiss, desperate for the taste of Cullen.

His rational mind quickly asserted itself, though, and he pulled away. “None of that out here. What will people think?”

“The entirety of Skyhold has already heard the rumors,” Cullen countered as he made another play for Dorian’s lips.

“No need to confirm them,” he protested. With a bit of coaxing, Dorian managed to maneuver them both back inside the office and up the ladder, where they could have at least some semblance of privacy.

Cullen immediately recommenced the kissing, which was a dangerous road that could only lead to loss of control and _feelings_ and Dorian making an idiot of himself again. So he spun Cullen around to face the wall and ordered, “Hands against the stone.”

Cullen groaned as he placed his palms on the wall, and Dorian pressed himself to Cullen’s back. Even this degree of closeness was almost too much to bear, especially when Cullen rocked his ass against him in a wordless plea. He desperately wanted to make love to Cullen, slow and sweet and purposeless, but that would never happen. Loving him felt like swallowing nails, now that he knew what the ritual was supposed to cost—what it still might cost, if they weren’t careful. _I’d give your soul back to you if I could, amatus_.

Reaching around, Dorian unlaced Cullen’s trousers and slid a hand inside. Cullen let out a broken moan as Dorian played with his rapidly hardening cock. Trying _not_ to think about how much he wanted the man while his fingers worked up and down Cullen’s delicious shaft was an exercise in mental gymnastics, to be sure. But this was how it had to be, now.

Cullen leaned his head back on Dorian’s shoulder. “I want to touch you,” he whined, hands still obediently pressed to the stone.

The urge to give Cullen _anything_ he wanted bloomed within him, but Dorian simply could not risk making himself vulnerable again. For so many reasons. “Shhh, be a good boy for me,” he murmured in Cullen’s ear, his hand twisting around the head of his cock on every upstroke. “You’re so gorgeous like this, all hot and needy and hard, I want to see you paint the wall with your seed.”

He pulled the tunic neckline out of the way and bit down on Cullen’s shoulder hard enough to bruise, and that was sufficient to punch the orgasm out of Cullen. Then Dorian made himself step away.

Panting and sweaty, weak-kneed from his release, Cullen threw an inscrutable look over his shoulder at him. “Are you ever going to fuck me again?”

Dorian moistened a towel in the wash basin, wiped his hand clean, and then passed it to Cullen. “That, my dear Commander is a discussion for another time.” He sat on the closed lid of a storage chest, since Cullen had no fucking chairs in his loft. “You were very distressed over your treatment of mages. I think we ought to return to that subject, now that your mind is a little clearer.”

“You want to discuss Kirkwall _now?_ ” Cullen said as he cleaned up and tucked himself away.

Dorian examined his fingernails, avoiding the Commander’s heated glance. “It seems to be a wound in need of lancing.”

Cullen began to pace like a caged lion. “What do you mean by that?”

Dorian looked up, eyed him speculatively. “I’m going to ask you questions about Kirkwall—difficult questions. If at any time you want to stop, you can choose not to answer. But if you keep all of this trapped inside, it will only continue to fester.”

“None of it will be pleasant to hear.” His tone made it sound like a threat.

“Of that I am certain,” Dorian answered dryly.

“Well.” At this rate, the Commander was going to wear a rut into the floor with his pacing. “Fine. Go on then. Ask your questions.”

“Did you murder innocent people?”

“It’s hard to say. Kirkwall _did_ have a blood magic epidemic—once a few mages start to experiment, it tends to spread like a disease. I don’t know why that is.” He paused and scrubbed at the back of his neck with one hand. “At the time, I was wholly convinced of their guilt every time I drew my sword to cut down an apostate… but in hindsight, it seems very likely I would have made errors in judgement.”

Dorian kept his face carefully neutral. It wasn’t his place to react—this conversation wasn’t about sating his morbid curiosity, it was about giving Cullen the space to air his sins before the guilt rotted him from the inside out. “Did you rape your charges?”

“No, never.” His inhale rattled in his chest. “But I didn’t stop my subordinates from assaulting them. And I turned mages Tranquil for the high crime of getting raped.” He pressed his knuckles against his eyes. “ _They made me do it with blood magic_ the Templar would say, and fool that I am, I’d _believe_ that. It sounds so absurdly transparent now, but back then, such an explanation was consistent with my worldview.”

Quietly, Dorian added, “Because it happened to you.”

“In very different circumstances,” Cullen huffed, as if impatient to dispel any possible excuse.

“Hm.”

None of the people whom Cullen had irreparably harmed were _Dorian’s_ people, which gave him the benefit of a certain emotional distance. Still, he had to wonder: what would he do to the darkspawn that infected Felix, if he could? What would he do to the Qunari who tortured and killed Rilienus? Certainly not offer forgiveness. And he had no right to offer it here, on behalf of strangers whom he’d never grieved for.

With a sigh, Dorian pushed those thoughts aside. “I was going to ask if you’d taken the brand to mages who’d passed their Harrowing, but I suppose we’ve answered that one already.”

Cullen shook his head. “Not as thoroughly as we should.”

“Very well.” Dorian gestured for him to continue.

“Samson was kicked out of the Order for passing seditious messages between a Circle mage, Maddox, and a member of the rebellion. Knight-Commander Meredith sentenced Maddox to Tranquility, and I carried it out. It was only much later that I learned Meredith was imagining enemies in every shadow. There was no sedition; they were harmless love letters. Maddox’s paramour wasn’t even associated with the rebellion.”

Dorian had arrived at the end of the short but horrifying list of questions that reading _Tale of the Champion_ had left him with, but he could tell that Cullen was still boiling over with unspoken confessions. “What else?”

“Carver Hawke, a man I now consider a dear friend… I disciplined him _four times_ with punishments of increasing severity for passing information to Marian. Information that likely saved innocent lives.” Cullen paused, and Dorian thought he might leave it there, but the floodgates were open now and more words came spilling out. “It’s easy to blame that apostate Anders for the whole war, but the truth is, Kirkwall was a barrel of gaatlok for years, just waiting for someone to light the fuse. Between Orsino’s blood magic and Meredith’s red lyrium poisoning, a peaceful resolution wasn’t on the table. By 9:37, all we could do was try to minimize the collateral damage. But if I’d seen the path we were on much earlier, when I was first promoted to Knight-Captain, I could have prevented it.”

“Mm, yes. Right. So now the entire mage-templar civil war is your fault,” Dorian said dryly. “No one else helped it along, I suppose.”

“It happened on my watch! I could have petitioned the Seekers to investigate Meredith before she gained too much power to be easily replaced. But back then, I thought she was my _salvation_ —she validated my fears and rewarded my worst impulses.”

“And she force-fed you three times the Chantry’s standard dosage of lyrium,” Dorian added, recalling scraps of information Cullen had alluded to earlier. “So she could feel confident in her control over you.”

“Yes.” Cullen swallowed, as if his throat was threatening to close. “I was her favorite dog, she kept me on a tight leash. And while I did bark, I also had a vicious bite.”

Dorian rubbed his hands together, trying to soothe a nebulous sense of discomfort; he had heard all he needed about Kirkwall, and then some. “Cullen. Do you want to hurt your nephew?”

Cullen threw him a startled look, the shift in topic catching him off-guard. “No, of course not.”

“Oh, come now, you can do better than that.” Dorian stood and moved into Cullen’s personal space, deliberately confrontational. “Do you want Templars to drag him around by those skinny little wrists? Do you want him Silenced and whipped? Do you want to see Stanton with a sunburst brand on his forehead?”

Cullen shrank from him. “NO! Maker, _stop!_ Why would you say such things?!”

“Because you aren’t that man anymore.”

His face twisted, as if this line of reasoning caused him physical pain. “I wanted to kill you. It seemed _logical._ What if I lose myself again like that?”

“Do you honestly think I would _let you_ hurt the boy?”

Cullen blinked. Several seconds passed, in which he seemed to be slowly absorbing this idea. “I… oh.”

“If we have to, we can arrange the presence of a chaperone. Myself, I’m certain Cassandra would assist… Leliana might even have suggestions on how to accomplish it without giving away the fact that your visits are being supervised. Even if your fears are legitimate, they are not insurmountable.”

Cullen sank slowly to sit on the edge of his bed, as if he were absolutely dumbstruck by the notion that he had friends who would help him. With his fears thus deflated, he looked so lost that Dorian couldn’t help himself; he walked over to stand in the space between Cullen’s knees and tucked a sweat-damp curl off his forehead.

Brushing a thumb over the rough stubble on one cheek, he pitched his voice low and soft. “To be frank, Cullen, the time has come to put _your_ shit on the back shelf, because your nephew is about to navigate quite a significant life change, and he needs you to make it seem normal, instead of acting like it’s the end of the bloody world. You can do that, yes?”

Cullen nodded slowly, his face still cupped in Dorian’s hand. “Yes. If I have you, yes.”

 _Always_ , Dorian didn’t say.

******

The next morning, Cullen woke early as always. He resolved to talk to Mia, but decided it would be prudent to kill some time watching the troops as they worked through their drills. Growing up on a farm, they were always up before dawn, but he had no idea if Mia was still an early riser. Once the sun had fully committed to the idea of daytime, he swung by the kitchens and put together a tray, then carried his humble peace offering up to the guest quarters.

A soft knock summoned Mia to the door, and thankfully she looked awake and dressed for the day, so he hadn’t bungled the timing. The entrance opened into a front room furnished like an Orlesian parlor, with two bedrooms in the back—one visible through an open doorway, the other closed.

“Stanton’s still asleep,” she said, her voice low.

“I brought some breakfast, nothing that won’t keep until he’s up.” Cullen set the tray down on a square table with four chairs—probably meant to be a card table, but it would do for food.

“That’s very thoughtful,” Mia said, which made Cullen feel like he was ten years old again and had just discovered what _manners_ were. He quickly crushed that patronized feeling before it could show up on his face in the form of a scowl.

As Mia settled in the chair across from him, he poured tea for them both; this, at least, he could feel confident hadn’t changed, since no self-respecting Fereldan ever turned down tea. Mia blew the steam from her mug, waiting patiently for him to break the silence.

Cullen cleared his throat. Maker, this was awkward. “I… want to apologize for how I reacted yesterday. It was unworthy of me.”

Mia’s lips pressed together unhappily. “I’m aware it’s an imposition, showing up on your proverbial doorstep with so little warning and so much baggage, but… I’d hoped you would want to help.”

“I _do_.” He scrubbed a hand over his forehead. “And it has been pointed out to me that Skyhold may be the safest place for a mage to pursue training in the entirety of the south. It’s just—”

The words caught in his throat. How could he explain without, well, _explaining_? He still felt almost physically sore from all the poison he’d spilled out yesterday with Dorian. In some strange way, it had helped to speak of it, but the process had been wretched and exhausting, and he wouldn’t be capable of a repeat performance any time soon.

When the silence had stretched much too long, Mia gently prompted, “It’s just…?”

Cullen huffed, frustrated with his own lack of ability to communicate. Finally, he settled on, “It’s complicated. For me.”

“Oh, Cullen.” Mia sighed. “I know you’ve had a hard life, brother. Your silence speaks volumes.”

His stomach plummeted as if the floor had vanished out from under him, and he inhaled sharply through his nose, trying to stamp down on the sudden wash of vertigo. He hadn’t wanted his silence to _speak_ —the whole point of writing so little was for his siblings to _never know_.

“What, did you think we would simply forget about you if you never wrote? That we wouldn’t lie awake at night, imagining the worst?”

“I’m sorry,” he ground out, fully aware how woefully insufficient that was to make up for a decade of neglect.

“Don’t fret, I didn’t mean it as a rebuke.” A small smile crept onto her face, and her tone turned light. “Besides, you’re going to make it up to me. I already know how.”

******

Dorian had put in a rather awkward request with Leliana to be informed when her scouts spotted Solas returning to Skyhold. She had stared blankly at him for a few seconds, as if it were one of Krem’s stuffed nugs asking for a favor instead of a member of the Inner Circle, but eventually acquiesced. So when he left the main keep that morning, he was headed for the gates, and hadn’t meant to get distracted by what was happening in the practice yard.

But Cullen was play-fighting with his nephew with wooden practice swords, and as he walked up beside Mia to watch, Dorian’s feet seemed to stick to the ground, Fallow Mire style.

Cullen was grinning boyishly and calling out fake orders—“Parry, recruit! Parry!”—while Stanton wore a small frown of concentration, as if they were engaged in Very Serious Combat Training. The whole thing was, frankly, _adorable_ , and Dorian fought hard not to grin like an idiot at the sight. Once again, his heart decided to experiment with some sort of unfamiliar alchemy inside his chest. Melting, possibly.

“Thank you,” Mia said, out of the blue.

Dorian shook himself and scrambled to find the words to reply. “Whatever for?”

“For this.” She inclined her head subtly toward the practice yard. “For knocking some sense into my thick-headed brother.”

He waved a hand. “Think nothing of it.”

“It wasn’t nothing. He’s hardly the easiest person to talk to,” Mia insisted. “There was a whole year—9:32, I think?—where we only knew he was still alive because the money kept coming every other month. Always on schedule.”

Dorian tore his gaze away from the practice yard to look at her, then. Was she hoping for insight? What could he share with her, without breaking Cullen’s confidence? Perhaps the broadest strokes would help more than they hurt. “Your brother has survived a lot of trauma—some of it quite old now, some of it in the past month. I think he’s afraid that if he tells you, it will somehow make what happened more real. As if it would finally despoil the last good, pure thing he has left in his life.”

“We’d understand, Bran and Rose and me. It’s not as if our lives have been free of grief and hardship.”

“He doesn’t believe himself to be worthy of anyone’s understanding.”

Mia turned toward him, her eyes sharp and searching. “You know him well.”

Dorian felt heat rise in his cheeks, and thanked to Maker he didn’t have a pale Fereldan complexion. What does one even say to that? _I was obsessed with your brother even before a fragment of his soul got implanted inside of me_?

“I… I’m afraid I’ve made myself late to meet someone. Lovely to see you, I’m sure we’ll talk again, soon,” he babbled, and fled from the conversation to rush down the stairs to the lower courtyard—where, of course, he ended up waiting almost half an hour for Solas to finally come riding in through the gates.

He waited for the elf to dismount and hand off his horse to a stableboy, then sauntered over to intercept him.

“Where have you been?” Dorian drawled.

Solas narrowed his eyes. “Grieving.”

“Oh. Well, that’s…” Dorian fidgeted, thrown off-balance by such bald-faced honesty. “…rather awful, I’m sorry.”

The elf released a put-upon sigh. “Was there something you needed?”

“It’s about the counter-ritual. My father manipulated you.” _Just as you manipulated Cole_ , he didn’t add, because the goal here was to solicit Solas’s help, not to win the gold metal for Most Petty. “Halward knew perfectly well that it wasn’t safe, and he never intended Cullen to survive the after-effects.”

Solas’s eyes flashed with something that Dorian could’ve sworn was _all-consuming fiery rage_ , except when he spoke, his voice stayed calm. “That is a most disquieting development.”

“Quite,” Dorian agreed. “So I assume I can rely upon your expertise in figuring out how to keep the Commander alive, yes?”

Solas sighed again, with less exasperation and more bone-deep exhaustion this time. “Show me what you know, and we’ll see what there is to be done.”


	13. Chapter 13

“Yes.” Solas nodded sagely. “I do see the problem.”

They were in the Fade, wading through a purple mist composed of Dorian’s memories, emotions, and cognitive processes. Even though it was only a visual projection of Dorian’s psyche, he still felt as if Solas had pulled him inside out. He dodged away from the existential despair he’d felt the day he left Tevinter and blundered right into an embarrassing childhood memory of kissing a boy and then trying to convince him he hadn’t meant it _that way_.

“Really, Solas? Because all I’m getting is bombarded with my own innards. This was a terrible idea.”

Solas sighed. “Hold still and _pay attention_. Calm you mind—it’s exhausting in here.”

Dorian huffed, but he reined in his irritation and focused. There, he could see it now, too: the purple was shot through with thin layers of gold, like mortar filling in the cracks between stones. “That’s… that’s what I took from Cullen?”

“It would appear so.”

“Hrm, well. It’s rather intertwined, isn’t it?”

He stepped back, following a particularly thick layer of yellow mist, tracing it as it clumped and narrowed into a cord. The thick thread trailed away from the rest of the projection and faded to invisibility in the distance.

Dorian gestured at the gold cord. “So we’re psychically connected? Quite literally, it seems.”

Solas nodded. “Now that we’ve seen exactly _what_ was accomplished, I’d like to examine the _how_. If you’re done here, I do believe it’s time to… **wake up** _._ ”

Dorian sucked in a sharp inhale, blinking away his disorientation as he sat up on the chaise in the rotunda. In the chair behind the desk, Solas was likewise rousing. Dorian shook off the clinging sense of the Fade and went over to the desk to lay out his research notes, while Solas cast a dome of quiet cast over them to keep the conversation private.

There was quite a bit of set-up to explain before he arrived at the coup de grace. But finally, he laid out a copy of one of Ellana’s sketches. “You see this flourish here? It alters the meaning of the glyph from ‘soul guide’ to ‘soul donor’.”

Solas went stone-still and practically radiated fury at the evidence of how he’d been tricked. After an awkwardly long silence, he said, “I should have seen this.”

“Yes, well, that’s what happens when two blood magic dilettantes go up against a Tevinter. My father had months to research this kind of mind magic—perhaps years, depending on when he got this idea.”

Solas obviously did not enjoy the word _dilettante_ being applied to him. Dorian felt a brief flash of satisfaction at the elf’s seething annoyance before he reminded himself that he was supposed to be getting help from Solas, not provoking him.

“I was thinking there might be a way to sever the connection…” Dorian said, trailing off to leave an opening for Solas to fill.

“Cutting the link would indeed eliminate Cullen’s drive to fornicate with you. But without any connection to the missing fragment of his soul, it’s likely he would rapidly deteriorate.” Solas clasped his hands behind his back thoughtfully. “Now that you’re able to see the part of you that isn’t you, can you extract it, so that it may be transplanted back in Cullen?”

“There is a necromantic spell for severing the spirit from the body, but it’s meant for banishing wisps after a resurrection. It’s not nearly precise enough for this application—it’d be like trying to do surgery with a broadsword instead of a scalpel.” Dorian paused. “And to be honest, I’m not thrilled with the likelihood that _I_ would then rapidly deteriorate.”

“It is a problem,” Solas agreed. “I will consult some friends in the Fade.”

Dorian felt an almost _overpowering_ need to taunt Solas about how “talk to spirits” was his solution for everything, but luckily just then, movement caught his attention. He looked up from the desk to see Stanton hovering nervously in the doorway of the rotunda.

Dorian waved a hand to dispel the silence glyph. “Ah, the tiny Rutherford. I did promise you a tour of the battlements, didn’t I? Come along, then.”

He swept up the lad in his wake, not giving Stanton a spare moment to look confused, since Dorian had made no such promise and was simply inventing an excuse to for them both to escape Solas’s presence. The elf might be helping with the Cullen situation, but that didn’t entitle him to know about Stanton. Excuse or no, the battlements weren’t a terrible idea—Dorian led the boy up and out onto the ramparts, then snuck them both into one of the empty, not-yet-renovated towers. A reasonably secluded place to practice some spellcasting, and if they happened to add a little extra damage to the already ruined tower, who was to know?

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Stanton said, twisting his fingers together as he looked around the abandoned tower with hesitant curiosity.

“My dear boy, what’s happening with you is important—you _may_ interrupt,” Dorian said. “And anyway, Solas is terribly dull, and I’d much rather run off and play with you instead.” He wiggled his fingers in the air, casting a rain of multicolored sparkles.

Stanton gasped, and Dorian smiled. Magic _was_ wondrous, and he wanted the boy to learn that first and foremost, before he had to think about demons and Templars.

They settled down, using chunks of rubble for seats, and Dorian said, “So what did you make of _An Introduction to Elemental Theory_?”

“There were parts I didn’t get.” The lad rubbed at the side of his nose. “Like if the elements are fundamental, why are there so many different classification systems? And that thing at the end about spirit magic…”

Dorian blinked. “You’ve already read the entire book?”

“Well…” Stanton flushed. “I snuck it into my room last night. I—I wasted _two candles_ ,” he admitted.

Dorian waved a hand, dismissing the worry. “If you _aren’t_ wasting candles reading books all night, are you even _really_ a mage?”

Dorian didn’t know what to do with this sudden swell of pride. He wanted to stuff Stanton full of books; he was already composing a list in his mind of what to order, and the thought of buying books for Stanton made him _giddy_. Was there a Common translation of the _Gelu Arcanum_? No matter, the lad would want to learn Tevene anyway, all the best magical texts were in Tevene…

It was possible Dorian was getting ahead of himself.

“We can absolutely debate the classification status of spirit magic later. But first, I think we ought to make sure you’re as safe as can be,” he said. “If you were a fire mage we’d have to worry about you burning down the house, but given your elemental inclination, the most immediate danger is demonic possession.”

Stanton scowled a little. “I’m not stupid, I know not to make deals with demons. Everyone knows that.”

“Yes, of course you do. But demons will often try to trick you into thinking what you’re experiencing is reality, so you also need to develop a way to quickly evaluate where you are. I like to press my thumbnail into my finger, but it could be any action that feels distinct—some mages bite their tongue or scratch their nose, even something like bouncing your weight on the balls of your feet. It’s not that you can’t feel anything in the Fade, but sensations take on a more nebulous quality when they aren’t directly linked to your physical form, so you’ll know right away whether you’re dreaming.”

The lad threw his a skeptical look. “You’re not gonna make me practice sleeping, are you?”

Dorian laughed. “What an _appalling_ suggestion. No, if you want to practice sleeping, you’ll have to talk to Solas about that. I’ve done the demon lecture, and now we can move on to something a bit more fun.”

Stanton’s eyes lit up with anticipation. “Are you going to teach me a _spell_?” he said, as if such simple knowledge was worth a fortune in gold pieces and he couldn’t believe Dorian was just going to _give_ it to him.

“We’ll start with the basics, Tevinter style.” Dorian grinned. “Every apprentice ought to learn Arcane Bolt.”

******

Cullen settled into a new and terribly strange routine. He ate most of his meals with Mia and Stanton—which meant he actually ate more than once a day, and also meant he had to tell Mia about the withdrawal to explain why attempting breakfast was not always practical. In the fight with Briony over his paperwork, he surrendered, even if guilt gnawed at him for working less than he had been. He owed the time to his sister and nephew, though, and if anyone thought he was being self-indulgent they never dared to mention it where he might overhear.

Dorian was everywhere, and at the same time, perpetually just out of reach. Even when Dorian was giving him relief, the mage seemed untouchable—physically present, but not entirely _there_. Cullen itched for him almost constantly now, the desire never quite satisfied.

A raven arrived from the Storm Coast, reporting that the operation had gone sideways and the alliance had crumbled before it ever really began. The loss of access to the Qunari spy network displeased Leliana, so Cullen kept his relief to himself. With “allies” like the Qun, who needed a Red Templar army? He only hoped Lavellan’s strike team had gleaned some notion of what their true intentions were.

The Chargers were their usual rowdy, good-natured selves when they returned to Skyhold, but Lavellan seemed unusually subdued as the advisors debriefed her. When the meeting ended, she lingered with Cullen in the War Room after Leliana and Josephine took their leave.

Cullen didn’t know what to say; though he tried to maintain a professional distance, it was difficult to pretend that their working relationship hadn’t been damaged by what she’d done to him. So he focused his attention on the war table map, meticulously removing the markers one by one.

After a weighted silence, Lavellan frowned in confusion at him. “What are you doing?”

Cullen blinked, momentarily unsure what she meant. “Oh, I always put this away. We can’t just leave out a map with the locations of all our active operations—that would be a massive security risk.”

“But how will you know how to set it up for the next meeting? I’ve never seen you take notes during a war council.”

“I… remember the positions...?”

“There’s got to be thirty or forty markers here! You just keep all that in you head?” She smiled wryly, not quite looking at him. “I guess now I know why you’re always beating people at chess.”

“Was there something you needed?” Cullen finally prompted.

“You’re the military strategist.” Lavellan folded her arms as if to steady herself. “Do you think I fucked up with the Qunari?”

“We could have deployed soldiers to back up the Chargers, but they deliberately gave us bad intel to force your hand—and Bull’s—into making some sort of symbolic sacrifice. You met with them in good faith, but they brought mind games and manipulations.” Cullen kept his scowl aimed at the growing pile of map markers. “You made the smart choice.”

She let out a self-deprecating laugh. “It wasn’t a calculated decision, Cullen. I wasn’t weighing anything against the probability of the Qun betraying us. I’d just rather a hundred strangers die than two dozen friends—that’s all. I’m selfish.” She sucked in a breath. “I’m selfish and I’ve learned nothing.”

Cullen rubbed the back of his neck, uncomfortable with her sudden vulnerability. “It’s not bad leadership to protect the people who’ve given you their loyalty. Throwing their lives away like they’re cheap toys? That would be bad leadership.”

Lavellan chewed her lip. “We’re at war. People die in wars. Hesitating at the wrong time could cost us everything.”

“That’s true.” He rolled the map and set it aside. “But it _should_ hurt; it should be hard every single time you order someone to die for you. Caring for our own is what separates us from our enemy.”

“Leliana would call that a weakness.”

His mouth quirked in a dry half-smile. “Don’t tell her I said this, but Leliana’s not always right about everything.”

******

From his window in the library, Dorian could see the late-afternoon sunlight painting Skyhold in lambent shades of gold. On the ramparts across the way, a rather distinct horned silhouette stood motionless and alone. This close to evening, the Chargers were likely getting rowdy in the Herald’s Rest, but their leader was brooding. Dorian could smell a good mope-fest from a hundred paces—he’d certainly done enough of it himself to know.

Of course he’d heard what happened on the Storm Coast—everyone had heard, down to the last kitchenmaid probably, given how gossip flew in Skyhold—but he hadn’t spoken to the Iron Bull outside the pub, and it’s not as if Bull could air his conflicted feelings with the Chargers listening. Coming to a decision, Dorian closed his book and set it aside. He’d recently gotten a lot of practice being Dorian Pavus, Good Friend and Wise Mentor; no time like the present to put it to good use.

He followed the ramparts around to join Bull, where he looked out upon the relatively flat approach to Skyhold, currently empty of travelers. The Iron Bull gave no acknowledgement of his arrival, though surely it hadn’t gone unnoticed. Dorian leaned companionably on the parapet beside him.

“I must admit, I’m feeling rather miffed about you usurping my title,” Dorian said lightly. “ _I_ used to be the Inquisition member most likely to be declared an enemy of the state by his own homeland.”

The Iron Bull kept gazing into the distance. Tiredly, he said, “Not really in the mood, Vint.”

“Bull…”

“It’s not comparable.”

Dorian was quiet for a minute, trying to arrange his jumbled thoughts into a shape that would comfort more than it cut. “Look, I’m only saying… I know what it’s like to love something, and have it turn around and try to hurt you. And even though _you’re_ the one whose faith has been betrayed, you can’t shake the guilt—like if you were just _good enough_ , none of this would have happened.” Dorian’s lips twisted into a wry approximation of a smile. “Sound about right?”

Bull snorted. “Yeah.” He shook his head, the massive weight of his horns turning the gesture ponderous. “Yeah, I guess you _do_ know, huh?”

“That’ll teach you to contradict me,” he quipped. “Besides, you’re ignoring the obvious benefits. You, Krem, and I can now start a very exclusive Exiles in the South Club.”

A pair of guards approached, and Bull looked at them with something like resignation. “I got this.”

Dorian opened his mouth to ask, _got what?_ By the time he realized they were not guards at all but instead Qunari assassins, one of the men had a hand-axe buried in his chest.

The other one spat, “Ebost issala, Tal-Vashoth!” right before the Iron Bull casually tossed him over the parapet.

“Yeah, yeah, my soul’s dust. Yours is scattered all over the ground, though, so…”

“Rude,” Dorian declared. “I do so hate to be interrupted by surprise assassination attempts.”

Bull shrugged it off. “Sending two guys with blades against _me_? That’s not a hit. That’s a formality.”

Dorian raised an eyebrow, wishing he could feel shocked at the notion of sacrificing two lives just to send a message. “Bull… I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, as I do hold you in the highest esteem, but fuck the Ben-Hassrath.”

It was hard walking away from your past, from the person you thought you’d always be. Dorian hoped the Iron Bull would find some comfort in knowing he didn’t walk alone. And he _really_ hoped Bull couldn’t tell what a profound relief it was to no longer have a Qunari spy in the Inner Circle—Dorian, at least, would sleep more soundly knowing he wasn’t going to end up with an axe buried in his spine someday. That unfortunate thread of Vint-Qunari tension was gone now, and perhaps their camaraderie could finally grow into unreserved friendship.

Friendship, a pleasant idea. Dorian didn’t think Rilienus would begrudge him that.

******

On the day when Stanton worked up the courage to finally disclose his status, Cullen was so happy just to be included in the family proceedings that he almost forgot to pretend he was hearing the news for the first time. He hugged his nephew, and then he hugged Mia, and then he hugged Dorian because apparently Cullen was now the sort of person who hugged other people and when had _that_ happened, exactly?

Dorian was present ostensibly to answer any questions the Rutherford siblings might have, though in actuality more for moral support. They talked, for the first time, about the logistics of Stanton’s magical education. Mia could not extend her visit indefinitely; Rosalie was staying with Kenneth to help with the two younger children, but it was an imposition, and Mia would have to leave soon for South Reach. Meanwhile, Stanton would require months of training to gain even basic proficiency.

Cullen’s chest seemed to tighten as this reality sank in. His sister would be leaving her firstborn child in his care. He felt a hand squeeze his knee and glanced up to catch Dorian flashing him a small, encouraging smile. _Breathe_ , Cullen told himself. _You can do this_.

When they were all talked out, Dorian left for the library, and Cullen walked out to the practice yard with his nephew in tow. Stanton was dragging his heels a bit, clearly still anxious about something.

“What’s wrong?” Cullen asked outright, for lack of a more subtle method.

“I…” The lad toed at the dirt with his boot. “I thought you wouldn’t want to train anymore, now you know I’m…”

“Nonsense.” Cullen gave him an encouraging smile. “Has Dorian showed you his staff?”

“Yes…?”

“And what does he have on either end of his staff?”

“A focus,” the boy said, clearly unsure where this was going, “and a blade…?”

Cullen nodded. “An ideal strike team has an even balance of front-line warriors and ranged fighters, so the archers and mages can keep back from the melee, but real circumstances often fall short of ideal. Dorian’s staff has a blade attachment because enemies can and do get close enough for him to need it.”

“Oh.”

He selected a pair of plain wooden practice staves from the weapons rack and passed one to Stanton. “Now I’m not an expert, but I can show you the basics of how to fight with longarms. You want to hold it right above left, space your hands out a bit, good…”

He showed Stanton a basic series of strikes with each end of the staff, and then walked him through a simple sparring exercise, learning how to block when there was actually another staff coming at you. The lesson was going swimmingly, right up until Cullen moved a little too quick, whereupon Stanton yelped in surprise and reflexively cast.

It was a good thing Cullen still had some residual ability to detect magic; that extra half-second of warning, combined with two decades of Templar-trained reflexes, let him raise his practice staff in time to intercept the Arcane Bolt that came shooting at his face. The spell hit and dissipated with a soft _whoof_ , leaving behind a black scorch mark on the wood.

Stanton’s eyes went wide as saucers. “I’m sorry!” he squeaked.

Cullen quickly rearranged his expression to get rid of the grimace that had sprung up of its own accord. His heart pounded against his ribcage, and he was absolutely _livid_ , but he would _not_ lose his temper on his nephew. Unlocking his jaw, Cullen said, “It’s fine, Stanton. This is why we practice.”

This wasn’t Stanton’s fault, Cullen repeated to himself like a mantra. This was the fault of the person who taught Arcane Bolt to an untrained child.

Cullen was going _murder_ Dorian.

He stored the anger away for later and kept the lesson going, concerned that Stanton would take it as a punishment if he cut their time short. But as soon as he could reasonably extricate himself, he put away the practice staffs, then stormed through the main keep and up into the library.

Dorian was lounging in his velvet armchair, one leg hitched over the armrest in a manner that would’ve made Cullen want to climb in his lap and hump him if he weren’t so livid. And anyway, the lap was currently occupied by a rather large leatherbound tome.

“Dorian.” He folded his arms and tightened his jaw against the urge to yell at the top of his lungs. “Did you teach combat magic to a _ten-year-old_?”

The mage had the nerve to look vaguely confused for a moment before replying, “Oh, you mean Arcane Bolt? That hardly counts, it’s the magical equivalent of giving a recruit a wooden practice sword—I learned it when I was eight. Stanton won’t be able to do any real damage until he’s taught Winter’s Grasp.”

“He’s supposed to be learning control, not studying how to cause maximum chaos!”

Dorian bristled. “If you want someone to teach the boy how to blend in and hide, you’ll have to find a different instructor. I don’t _do_ blending.” He dropped the book and rose from his seat, static crackling along his exposed shoulder. “Complexity and precision? Yes. Resplendence? _Always._ But I refuse to turn Stanton into a good little mouse, hiding his magic away whenever the clank of armored boots comes near. He has a glorious gift!”

Cullen inhaled sharply through his nose, pulling back on his temper through sheer force of will. “I’m not saying he should act like he’s in a Circle—”

“Except you are!” Dorian tossed his hands in the air. “You’re still afraid of anyone who has a power you can’t subdue. Fasta vass, after everything we’ve gone through, do you just _tolerate_ me?”

“I…” He blinked, floored at the mage’s outburst. “This isn’t about you.”

“I am _a mage_ , Cullen—it is the single most important fact of my existence. You cannot hate magic without hating who I am!”

“How did you leap to hating magic? You’re overreacting!”

His words echoed through the rotunda, awkwardly loud in the sudden silence that followed. Dorian’s gray-eyed glare spoke of _betrayal_ , as if Cullen had blundered into another one of the mage’s unexpected sensitivities. Dorian shoved past him to leave—“Wait,” Cullen pleaded, making a grab for his arm, but Dorian shook him off and stalked down the stairs.

******

Cullen couldn’t stop thinking about their argument. He’d been _so sure_ he was in the right about Stanton’s education, but then they’d veered off-course somehow, and he didn’t even really understand what the heart of their argument had been about.

Mia laughed at him. “You’re _miles_ away.”

“Hm?” He turned, refocusing on his sister. They were in the sitting room of the guest quarters, Cullen’s chessboard set up on the card table between them.

“What’s got you all twisted up in knots, brother?” She took her turn, capturing one of his pawns. “Everything all right with Dorian?”

Cullen flushed, his face heating fiercely. “Maker’s breath,” he muttered. “I didn’t think _you_ would listen to Skyhold gossip.”

Mia gave him a frank stare. “The poor man is obviously head-over-heels for you, Cullen. No gossip required to see that.” She sighed and folded her hands in her lap, clearly not about to let this go. “What’s the problem—you don’t return his affections?”

Cullen huffed. He couldn’t believe she was going to make him talk about this. He pushed his rook forward to buy himself some time to find the words. “It’s… complicated. Circumstances forced us together. There was magic involved, and I just— I don’t know if any of it’s real.”

“Hm.” Mia stared at the board for a minute. “Did I ever tell you how Kenneth and I met?”

“No, not the details,” Cullen said, grateful for what seemed like a shift in topic.

“The Blight was a nightmare, but Rose and Bran and me, we were better prepared than most. You know how Ma was—relentlessly practical—so we had warm clothes and bedrolls and travel rations. She’d even hidden a third of the family coin in each of our packs in case we got separated. It came in handy much later, when we settled, but money was worthless on the run; with so many villages destroyed, there was nowhere to spend it. Rosalie and her hunting bow… not yet fourteen, and our baby sister was all that stood between us and starvation, once the rations ran out.

“Anyway, we met Kenneth on the road. Refugees had started banding together into larger groups—safety in numbers against the bandits, poorly armed as we were on our own. Kenneth was from Lothering, but he’d been traveling to the sawmill in Waterside when the Blight hit, so he was alone. And then… he was with me.” She took a breath, as if steeling herself. “You have to understand, it felt like the end of the world, so what did it matter if we weren’t careful? I assume you noticed, from my letters… Stanton was born just five months after we married.”

Cullen felt his cheeks redden. Bad enough to talk about romance with his sister; sex was a topic he absolutely wanted to avoid. His hand rose to the back of his neck. “I chose not to think on it too closely, if I’m honest.”

Mia rolled her eyes affectionately at his embarrassment. “Really, brother, we’re both adults here. The point of all this is, it would be very easy for someone to claim that my marriage is just a matter of circumstance—the Blight threw us together, and then Kenneth proposed because I was pregnant. But however it started, we’ve built a good life together.”

“It’s not the same,” Cullen huffed.

“You’re worried you didn’t choose him, but honestly, it’s not as if other people go out and make a _strategic decision_ about whom they fall in love with. That’s not how love works.”

Cullen scowled as this idea sank in. He had spent so much energy railing against how his attraction to Dorian had come about; it was exhausting, hating and fearing the blood magic while simultaneously craving the mage, like his impulses were tearing in half. Mia’s assertion that circumstances were not so important at the end of day… it shook him to the core. Was the solution so simple? Could he just… let go of _how_ it happened, and allow his feelings to grow?

“It’s your move,” Mia reminded, sounding amused.

“Shit,” slipped out of his mouth as he examined the chessboard. “You’ll have me in check in two moves. When did you manage that?”

Mia laughed. “You were distracted.”

“I was at that,” he admitted wryly.

Yes, he had a gorgeous mage to talk to. He just needed to think up a suitable apology.

******

Dorian was considering retiring early, for once, having put in a full day of research. He let himself into his bedchamber, closed the door, and then froze at what he saw within.

Cullen was kneeling on the floor beside his bed, completely naked, cock stiff and heavy between his thighs, and he’d managed to _tie his own hands together_ —presenting himself all stripped down and trussed up, like a gift. The picture was so close to Dorian’s fantasies that he pressed his thumbnail into his finger, certain he must be dreaming.

“Cullen.” He tried to swallow, but his mouth had gone dry. “What are you doing?”

“Punish me?” He gazed up from his spot on the floor, imploring with those whiskey-colored eyes, and there went the last fragment of Dorian’s sanity. “Please. I need to— to earn your forgiveness.”

This was too surreal. His feet felt glued to the floor. “Vishante kaffas,” he muttered under his breath.

“What we’ve been doing since…” Cullen inhaled sharply. “Since that time, when I kissed you. It’s not enough. It hasn’t been _working_. I need… more? I—I don’t know how to explain.”

Venhedis, he should have known. Sexual release was only a secondary component. What Cullen truly required was intense intimacy—contact with the fragment of his soul that had been transplanted into Dorian. There really was no alternative.

He would have to fuck Cullen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am completely insane, so I spent the weekend starting a new fic, because one work in progress is just not enough I guess. I'm definitely still committed to finishing Fair Exchange, though! I have a pretty good idea where this is going, and I think it'll be another ~5 chapters. Up next: smut and feels!
> 
> In case you want to check out the new fic and tell me if I should pursue it, here's the summary for Call a Thing by its Name:
> 
> Freshly exiled, the Iron Bull leaves the Storm Coast with his Chargers plus one: a human saarebas who was the lone survivor of the dreadnought explosion.
> 
> Cullen knows his attraction to the beautiful collared mage is sick and wrong. But he may have to do the unthinkable to protect the saarebas from a family that wants him back for all the wrong reasons.
> 
> Saarebas has a new arvaarad (called “the Iron Bull”) and a new karataam (called “the Inquisition”), which should be comforting, except he doesn’t understand why everyone keeps trying to trick him into breaking the rules… or why they keep calling him “Dorian.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a short chapter, but that last cliffhanger was evil, so here you go: as promised, the smut and feels.

Dorian burst into the Herald’s Rest and made a beeline for the back wall, where the Iron Bull normally sat. The Maker must be smiling upon him and all his endeavors, because Bull was drinking alone, but the tavern was busy enough for the ambient noise to mask an awkward conversation.

“Hypothetically speaking, if there were a naked man kneeling on my floor, begging to be bound and flogged, but this wasn’t a scenario we’d previously negotiated… what ought I to do about that?”

Bull folded his arms, his gaze sharp and evaluating. “So you… what, walked in, saw Cullen naked, then just turned around and left?”

Dorian fidgeted. “I may have implied that being made to wait is part of his punishment.”

 _Implied_ wasn’t exactly the right word for it. What he’d said to Cullen was, _Your cock belongs to me now—no touching without permission. Be a good boy and think about how hard I’m going to fuck you to keep yourself ready for me._ So, yes, fine, that was more explicit than implicit.

“You’re into it,” Bull stated, not a question.

Dorian let out a bark of self-deprecatory laughter. “He could ask me to spoon-feed him strawberry jam and I’d be into it, Bull. That’s hardly saying anything.” Oh, actually... tying Cullen to the bed and feeding him delicious treats? That... that could be good. _Focus, Dorian_.

“So what’s the hang-up?”

“We’ve had some, ah, _miscommunications_ around the issue of consent before.”

“If a guy plans ahead to bring rope to your bedroom, I’d generally take that to mean he’s _enthusiastically_ consenting.”

“Sure, _now_ he is,” Dorian huffed. “But he has a tendency toward immediate and violent post-coital regrets.”

“Given that he’s already done the part where he kneels naked on your floor and begs for a beating… how humiliated is he gonna feel if you refuse?”

Dorian chewed his lip. “Hm. Fair argument.”

“At this point, sounds like there’s more risk of doing damage if you reject him.”

“You’re not just telling me what I want to hear?”

Bull rolled his shoulder, as if working kinks out of the muscle. “Big Guy, if I thought you were outta line, I’d be the first to smack some sense into you. Promise.”

“Well. In that case, you must pardon me. I have a gorgeous man to punish.” With as much dignity as he could muster, Dorian swept out of the tavern.

******

Cullen hadn’t known that _waiting_ could be erotic, but the anticipation was a heady thing. He imagined Dorian pushing him forward onto knees and elbows and ploughing into him right there on the cool stone floor, and the thought made him desperate to touch himself, but he left his prick alone. When Dorian returned, his wicked smile made Cullen’s breath catch in his throat. The mage crouched down and pressed his fingertip under Cullen’s chin, gray eyes raking over his body.

“Maybe I’ll keep you like this always, tied up naked in my bedroom, ready for me to use whenever I like.”

Cullen moaned, dizzy with want. Dorian’s hand dropped to his lap and stroked his neglected cock, and it was _so good_ Cullen bit his lip, resisting the urge to thrust up into the mage’s grip. When the hand withdrew, the absence of contact was torturous.

Dorian stood and strolled over to the neat pile of Cullen’s clothes set aside on the desk chair. Cullen watched, attentive but confused, as Dorian rifled through his things. Then the mage pulled out Cullen’s leather belt.

Oh. _Oh._

“Remind me.” He snapped the belt in the air, making it crack like a whip. “What’s our watchword?”

Cullen’s pulse _raced_. “Maleficar.”

“Good boy.”

Dorian folded the well-worn leather into a loop and tested it against his other palm, making an ominous smacking sound. Cullen was doomed—he would never be able to wear that belt again without getting hard at the memory of Dorian standing over him like this. That glint in his eye, that impish smirk twisting his lips.

Dorian sat on the edge of the bed, then grabbed Cullen by the elbows and hauled him up to lie across his lap—face down on the coverlet, ass in the air, arms stretched over his head with his wrists still tied. _Oh_ , it was happening, Cullen was practically shaking with desire. Dorian snapped the belt down hard against Cullen’s ass, and a keening noise escaped from between his clenched teeth as the pain bloomed and radiated deep.

The mage’s empty left hand brushed over the hot, sensitive skin. “Can you take twenty lashes?”

Maker, _twenty_ hits like that? The thought sent a thread of fear through him, but his prick twitched with interest. Yes, he could do it, he would take his punishment. Speaking would require unlocking his jaw, so Cullen just nodded vigorously.

“Then you’ll count it down for me. What was that one?”

“Twenty,” Cullen ground out.

Each strike _stung_ at first, then settled into a deep, throbbing ache. Dorian hit with an unpredictable rhythm, moved without warning to the backs of his thighs before returning to his ass, preventing Cullen from bracing himself. He was utterly at Dorian’s mercy. By the time he counted down to sixteen, his cock was impossibly hard, rubbing against the side of Dorian’s thigh with each blow.

“Fourteen. I’m sorry!” Cullen’s voice felt raw and his vision swam from the stinging pain. _Maker_ , he was so turned on. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he whined.

 _Slap_. “Mm, oh yes, you’ll be sorry by the time I’m done with you, you naughty boy.” He could hear the grin in Dorian’s voice.

“Thirteen,” he counted. “I’ll be good, I’ll be good!”

The pain ebbed and crested and crashed like waves. At nine, he felt almost like he was floating in it. At five, some kind of mental floodgate inside him _broke_ , and he began absolutely _sobbing_ into the bedspread—no longer simply sorry about the fight with Dorian, his arousal all but forgotten. Eleven years’ worth of grief and guilt and self-hatred came pouring out of him until he could barely breathe around the tears. He was distantly aware that Dorian had paused, was trying to ask him something, but the meaning of the words didn’t penetrate.

“Don’t stop,” he managed to choke out. The pain was fuel, or permission, or… he didn’t really know what. “I need it!”

The belt landed again, even though he quite failed to keep up with the counting. He couldn’t focus on anything except the catharsis of bawling out all the poisonous feelings that had relentlessly eaten at him for the past decade. The pain emptied him like an overturned pitcher.

******

Cullen didn’t realize he’d gone away until he gradually began to come back to himself. He was lying on his side, held in Dorian’s arms, his wrists no longer bound. Fingers carded a soothing pattern through his hair while the mage murmured gentle nothings in his ear.

Cullen blinked. Everything felt pleasantly blurry and soft. “What happened?”

“You cried yourself out, and then went under rather thoroughly.” Dorian paused. “I confess I haven’t seen someone do that before, but it’s not unusual, I don’t think? We can ask Bull about it—he’d know.”

It didn’t particularly worry Cullen. He felt good; he felt like he could breathe better than he had in years, as if some tight knot under his sternum had finally come loose. “Mm. This is nice,” he mumbled, squirming a little to snuggle closer into Dorian’s embrace.

“Who are you, and what have you done with my cantankerous ex-Templar?” Dorian gently teased.

Cullen sighed contentedly. “I’m tired of being scared of this.”

Dorian said nothing, but his arms tightened around him.

Cullen nuzzled into the crook of his neck, inhaling that scent of foreign spices he could never quite identify. He lifted his chin and pressed slow, wet kisses to the mage’s throat.

Dorian laughed, a little nervously. “What are you doing? Surely _that_ was intense enough to satisfy the urges, no?”

Cullen paused and pulled away a little, so they could look each other in the eyes. “Dorian, I…” Why was this so hard to ask for? “I want to be with you when it’s just us. Without the compulsion. Is that okay?”

The mage made a small, broken sound, then leaned in and kissed Cullen with more tenderness than he’d known was even _possible_ to fit into a kiss. His heart swelled in his chest; he wanted more, he wanted closer, he wanted _everything._

“Why do you still have clothes?” Cullen whined.

Dorian chuckled. “I was rather preoccupied with this.” He ran his hand gently over Cullen’s ass—it was _sore_ from the beating, and the warm throbbing ache seemed to _light up_ under Dorian’s soft touch. Cullen gasped, his cock taking renewed interest in the proceedings.

“Stop teasing and get rid of this,” Cullen said, his fingers fumbling with the complex robes. “I want to feel you.”

Dorian exhaled as if those words were a punch to the diaphragm, and he scrambled to shed his clothing, getting naked in mere seconds before crashing back into Cullen, skin to skin. The kiss turned deep this time, Dorian’s tongue claiming his mouth like he wanted to conquer some Fereldan territory. Their hard cocks rubbed together as they pressed against each other.

Cullen hitched his leg over Dorian’s hip. “Oooh, touch me, touch me,” he murmured against Dorian’s mouth.

Clever fingers brushed up his bruised thigh. Then a slight tingle of magic, and an oiled finger rubbed over his hole. He wanted Dorian inside him _now_ , but the mage took his time opening him up so carefully, so thoroughly.

Cullen whispered, “Please.”

Dorian rolled him onto his back, tucking a pillow beneath his lower spine, and settled between his spread thighs. Cullen moaned as the mage’s cock filled him, slick and hot and perfect, like they were made to fit together.

Dorian moved in a slow, sweet, languorous rhythm, and it felt _so good_ just to exist like this that Cullen never wanted to stop. Dorian on top of him, inside him, filling all his senses. The mage wove their fingers together, palm to palm, and leaned his weight on Cullen’s arms. Pinned down by Dorian, he couldn’t remember ever feeling this _safe_.

They stared into each other’s eyes. There was a strange vulnerability in Dorian’s gray gaze, as if he were letting Cullen stare straight through him all the way down to his soul. It awed him, to be this _close_ to another person.

“Cullen…” Dorian whispered, in a way that sounded an awful lot like _I love you_.

It was so new, Cullen didn’t know what this was he felt. But he was sure of one thing. “I’m yours,” he swore. “I’m yours.”

“Oh, amatus.” Dorian leaned down for a kiss, passionate and messy as his thrusts turned more urgent. Static sparked off Dorian’s skin, a soft tingling buzz that Cullen could feel _everywhere_ , even— _oh Maker—_ even inside…

His orgasm hit him like a shield bash, the air driven from his lungs, his vision flashing white. The intensity shocked him; he’d been mentally prepared for disappointment, had even considered that he might not be able to come at all without the blood magic fueling his desire. Apparently, he was wrong.

Cullen gasped for air, Dorian buried to the hilt inside him, climbing quickly toward his own peak. Glass shattered somewhere in the room as Dorian cried out and came.

They collapsed into a tangle of sweaty limbs, both catching their breath. Cullen’s thoughts were quiet; he felt… at peace. Dorian moved first, shifting to give him another tender kiss.

Gradually, Cullen became aware of a steady _drip, drip, drip_. He propped himself up on his elbows, frowning. “What is that sound?”

Dorian face-planted into a pillow, embarrassed. “I made the ink bottle on my desk explode.”

“Why?” said Cullen with a bemused chuckle.

“I didn’t do it on purpose!” the mage squawked. “Venhedis, that hasn’t happened since I was a teenager.”

The chuckle evolved into a full-fledged snicker. “You— you’re saying you came so hard you lost control?” That should have been a sobering thought, not an amusing one, but for some reason Cullen couldn’t stop laughing.

“It’s not funny!” Dorian protested, though now he was laughing, too. “It’s mortifying, I tell you.”

“Dorian Pavus, fearsome necromancer and bane of ink bottles. Writing materials everywhere quiver in terror when you pass.”

Dorian groaned. “I’m never going to live this down, am I?”

“Someday we’ll be old and gray and I’ll _still_ use it against you,” he joked.

“Hm,” Dorian considered, then planted a quick kiss on Cullen’s lips. “Very well. I’ll take it.”

Only as they lay there after, making their way leisurely toward sleep, did Cullen realize that the thought of being stuck with Dorian until they were old and gray… it didn’t frighten him. Not at all.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the egregious delay! I got distracted writing some angsty Witcher porn. But I really am going to finish this—there are maybe 4-5 chapters left, I think? We’ll get to that HEA, I promise!

“Are you in love with Uncle Cullen?”

Dorian choked on his tea and only narrowly avoided spewing it across the pages of a first edition Genitivi. All right, yes, so the infatuated gazing might have been a bit more pronounced at breakfast than usual, but he could hardly be blamed after last night.

“That’s a complicated question,” he said, once his throat was cleared. He eyed the lad suspiciously from across the library table. “Why?”

Stanton shrugged with transparently feigned indifference, his gaze focused back on the text he was supposed to be reading. “If you got married, then you’d be my uncle, too.”

Dorian _reeled_.

When he’d fled Tevinter, Dorian had resigned himself to his fate—he was dead to his parents and vice versa, Felix would soon succumb to a more literal death, and then Dorian would spend the rest of his life essentially alone. It wasn’t a pleasant thought, far from it; but it was the reality he’d forced himself to come to terms with.

Now there was a small person not-so-subtly insinuating that he wanted Dorian to be a part of his family and… he couldn’t begin to fathom what to _do_ with that. It would have been less of a shock if Stanton had stood up and hit him in the face with a frying pan.

Marry Cullen. Legally and permanently join the Rutherford clan. He couldn’t possibly do that, could he? His own upbringing left him woefully unprepared for membership in an _actual_ family. Dorian’s mother had taught him everything he needed to know to be a high-functioning alcoholic, and his father had taught him that no one can hurt you as deeply as the people you love. He honestly hadn’t even _realized_ the full extent of his parents’ dysfunction until he’d observed Mia with Stanton—how she loved and supported him regardless of whether he’d done anything obvious to earn it, and even when he was actively making her life difficult. What could Dorian possibly offer to people like that?

Oh, of course. He was getting ahead of himself again. This wasn’t really about Dorian; this was about Mia, and the insecurity around her upcoming departure. “Are you nervous about staying in Skyhold when your mother leaves?”

“No!” the boy protested too quickly, scowling in that way that meant, _I’m not a baby_. Ah, so on top of being anxious he was embarrassed about being anxious.

“It’d be perfectly normal, if you were. I recall being _terrified_ my first night in the Circle of Carastes. Didn’t sleep a wink.”

Stanton eyed him curiously. “How old were you?”

“Eight,” Dorian replied. “Mother would’ve been happy to see me off sooner—would’ve saved her a fortune in scorched tapestries!—but alas, eight is the youngest the Circles will take you in Tevinter. The prestigious Circles, at least.”

“And you were scared?” the boy said, as if he doubted such a thing were possible.

“Everyone gets scared. The trick is learning when to listen to your fear response, and when to ignore it. Now,” Dorian said, leaning forward to check Stanton’s progress, “how are you coming along with the _Caster’s Guide to Control_? Any questions?”

******

Cullen and Mia leaned against the wooden railing on the third floor of the main tower. They’d just spoken with Leliana about making travel arrangements, since the scouts had the most up-to-date information about the comings and goings of civilians through Skyhold. Mia would be leaving in two days’ time with a caravan heading east, but for now, they were secretly observing Stanton’s lesson from above.

Cullen couldn’t make out the words, but Dorian’s emphatic hand gestures as he explained some theory or other made up for it. The warmth in his chest was so poignant he almost couldn’t bear the feeling.

Mia leaned closer and said softly, “He looks so serious when he’s teaching.”

Cullen allowed himself a small smile. “Dorian can get irrepressibly logical.”

“It makes me want to find a two-year-old who’s in the ‘why’ stage and unleash them on him, just to see how long he can keep it up for.”

“Not unless you want the poor child to grow up to be a pedantic mage,” he replied, but there was no heat in the words, only fondness.

“Hold on to him. He’s a good one.”

Cullen eyed his sister. “I intend to.”

Catching his look, Mia rolled her eyes affectionately. “I know, I know, you’re a grown man and perfectly capable of managing your own personal affairs. It’s just… it’s a relief to see you happy, brother, after so many years of worrying that you never would be.”

He blinked. It was strange to have someone else identify his state of mind as _happy_ even before he’d recognized it as such. But he found he couldn’t argue with her assessment.

Cullen and Stanton saw Mia off two days later. The lad put on a valiant show of bravery, and Mia got misty-eyed and hugged them both very tightly and made not-so-subtle threats about what fate would befall Cullen if he didn’t write more frequently from now on.

They packed up Stanton’s belongings, too. The guest suite would be needed for visiting dignitaries, and it was time for Stanton to move into permanent quarters. Cullen felt more nervous than he really had any right to be, and he kept asking if Stanton was _sure_ until the lad actually sounded exasperated with him. Stanton was _really, really sure_ he wanted to move into the apprentice dormitory, effectively going public with his status as a mage. So Cullen swallowed his own irrational fears, and helped his nephew move in.

The apprentice dormitory was a long, narrow room built into the north wall of the keep, with easy access to the tower that would soon be equipped for the mages’ use. Cullen found the dorm stifling and claustrophobic—the arrowslit windows letting in only slivers of light, the walls so close together there was barely room to navigate past the foot of the beds. He did his best to keep his reaction off his face.

Federick, the apprentice healer, led them to an empty bunk. “So, um, this one can be yours…? If that’s all right?” His eyes kept slipping off Stanton and flicking over to Cullen instead.

Stanton blinked owlishly at the older boy’s nervousness, as if it were only now dawning on him that being the Commander’s nephew would affect his social standing with the other children. “Yeah, it’s good.”

Cullen set Stanton’s travel bag beside the storage trunk that went with the bed. “Once Stanton is settled in, perhaps you could show him the practice area?” he said to Federick.

Tucked behind the mage tower was a broad section of rampart overlooking the garden, which Ellana had designated for their use. From the safe distance of the garden below, visiting dignitaries would catch glimpses of magic being thrown around—a deliberate reminder that the mages were free allies. (Cullen had protested this arrangement, but Josephine thought it was shrewd and overruled him. How long ago that disagreement seemed, now.)

“Oh, uh, a—aye, ser,” Federick stammered.

Cullen nodded. He felt the urge to hover, to tell Stanton that if he needed _anything_ he should come to him, but he didn’t want to embarrass the lad with his mother-henning. So he gave Stanton’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze and reminded, “Staff training tomorrow afternoon,” and forced himself to leave without further fussing.

******

Dorian dug out that terrible folded piece of paper, the _mages cannot be treated like people_ page from Varric’s book, and he demolished it in a puff of flame and smoke. He didn’t need to hold onto it anymore.

Yes, they were fighting a war against an ancient darkspawn magister and his legions of Red Templars and Venatori. Either he, or Cullen, or both of them along with the entirety of Thedas could be dead within the year. But Dorian would be damned if he let _the past_ be the thing that tore them apart. They would live in the present, together, for as long as they possibly could. Each day with Cullen was a gift.

Ellana left again, for the Emerald Graves this time—something about red lyrium smugglers and upstart Orlesian deserters. Along with Cole and Blackwall, she took Solas with her, and Dorian might have been irritated about the elf leaving whilst their research was still incomplete, but as far as he could tell, it wasn’t as if Solas had actually contributed anything useful so far, anyway. They were no closer to figuring out a solution to the soul bond.

The thought of being permanently linked to Cullen didn’t seem as dire as it once had, though.

Neither he nor Cullen had actually put words to it yet, but there was no denying that they spent their nights _making love_ now. Sometimes Cullen wanted sweet and slow, and sometimes he wanted it rough, but either way the intimacy between them was intense. Dorian felt a warm, almost comforting sort of resignation when he admitted to himself that it was only a matter of time until he slipped up and spoke those three little words.

Dorian was leaning against the wall of the Herald’s Rest to watch Cullen and Stanton’s sparring practice from an unobtrusive distance when Knight-Captain Briony sought him out. She walked over as if to join him in watching the match and said, “Lord Pavus,” with a polite inclination of her head.

“Captain Briony,” he replied.

“Who’s winning?” she asked, with a dry little grin.

“Oh, I don’t know, I think the ten-year-old might have him on the back foot.” Dorian eyed her curiously; Cullen had not spoken much about his newly appointed successor. “You seem young for a Knight-Captain, if you don’t mind me saying.”

She shrugged. “Templars who were recruited as adults almost never got promoted to leadership positions. The Order much preferred those of us like myself and Cullen who were recruited young—more years of training under our belts.”

“And more years of indoctrination,” Dorian pointed out.

“Yes, that too.” Briony sighed. “Perhaps mostly that.”

“You speak of the Order in the past tense.”

“Well it is past, isn’t it? I may call myself a Templar as a statement of loyalty to an ideal, but the infrastructure of the Order is gone. The Lord Seekers saw to that, even before Corypheus came along and turned everyone into red lyrium monsters.”

“Hm,” he agreed, and they lapsed into silence as their attention returned to the practice ring.

But that was when the interaction took a turn for the bizarre. “Cullen would make a fine father,” Briony observed.

“ _Excuse me?_ ” said Dorian frostily. He had been trying very hard not to think about _exactly that_ whenever he saw Cullen and Stanton together. Being bonded to Dorian meant Cullen would never settle down with a nice fertile wife and have children of his own, and that gave Dorian an unpleasant ache in his chest. He preferred to shove that thought down inside the Don’t Think About It Box.

Briony seemed unperturbed at this reaction. “I was raised in the Chantry, did you know? I was fourteen when I figured out what ‘left in a basket on the front steps’ _actually_ meant. By then, I’d been in Templar training for almost four years; I thought about running away, but realized that if I didn’t finish training and take my vows, I’d never get access to my records. I’d never find out who my parents really were—which Circle they were in.”

Dorian blinked at her in shock.

“Turns out the Chantry was never terribly concerned with record-keeping when it came to stolen children, and with so many Circles physically destroyed… there are a lot kids who may never know who their birth parents are. And that’s on top of the war orphans who have no blood relatives left to return to.”

“And here I thought I couldn’t possibly be more aghast at the southern Chantry,” Dorian replied. “Is it Horrify The Vint Day, and no one told me?”

Briony sighed and gave him a look as if he were deeply stupid. “I’m saying you don’t have to make a baby to raise a child with someone. Assuming we come out the other side of this war… he won’t have to choose between children and you.”

The idea of being forced to make a baby with a woman had always elicited such nauseous horror that Dorian had never really gotten past to idea of _baby_ to consider whether he wanted to be a father. Babies were squalling, disgusting, and most importantly _boring_ not-quite-people, and Dorian actively avoided even the thought of them. But Briony was saying there were orphaned magelings who had already grown into the small-person phase… like Stanton, but smaller, and Dorian would never have to give them back.

Dorian wanted that. Oh, _fuck_ , he wanted it, he wanted to raise a child with Cullen and marry the stupid oaf and maybe get a mabari (he could probably get past the slobber factor, if it made Cullen happy). It was a good thing Briony had been called away by a runner, because Dorian’s eyes were moist and stinging, and he doubted anyone would believe it was the dust from the practice ring making them water.

******

Dorian lounged in his usual alcove in the library, utterly failing to get any actual translation work done, and instead staring out the window and attempting to strategize how to explain his revelation to Cullen. Was this the sort of thing one just… said aloud? _Cullen, I want to make you my family and live together forever and ever and you can have a dog if you like but I want magelings_? Preposterous.

“Letter for you, ser.”

“Hm?” Dorian blinked up at the runner, momentarily stupefied, before reaching out a hand to accept the piece of mail. Who could possibly be writing him? With the exception of Ellana, everyone he’d ever loved was either dead or here in Skyhold. It could be from Maevaris, he supposed—she was the closest thing he had left to a friend in Tevinter.

But when he flipped the letter over, his stomach dropped. The seal was not House Tilani, but House Pavus. He opened it with trepidation and recognized his mother’s neat cursive.

Aquinea had always been short-tempered, sharp-tongued, and stilted in her affections, particularly when sober (which occurred less frequently as Dorian got older). He’d heard nothing from her since before Halward’s first attempt at the ritual, and he could not imagine what would move her to re-initiate contact now.

The letter was long and rambling, hinting at but never outright proclaiming a number of curious details. Apparently, Aquinea and Halward had been living apart since Dorian’s “departure” from Tevinter, no longer on speaking terms due to Halward’s “unfortunate choices” of an unspecified nature. … _I daresay your father fancies himself a vintner, the way he holes away at the winery estate outside Asariel. Why, I’ve even heard he has not yet made his reappearance in Minrathous to prepare for the Magisterium’s fall session. …_

Dorian read the letter again, and it clicked: this was a warning. Aquinea had discovered Halward’s mysterious absence from Tevinter and assumed—correctly, if belatedly—that her husband was making a move against her son. She was trying to protect Dorian.

“Too little, too late, Mother,” he muttered to himself, and yet, a strange ache kindled in his chest. She cared; she was on his side. Never in a million years would he have expected her to bother spying on Halward in an attempt to keep her son safe. Apparently, the viper _did_ have at least one maternal bone in her body.

Dorian was shocked, and ever so slightly touched. And he felt a fierce and instant need to rub it in Halward’s face.

He hopped up from his chair and rushed out of the main keep. The dungeons were grim and damp and unpleasant as always, but Dorian’s vicious glee kept him warm from the inside. One of the guards on duty was a man he’d not seen before, but the other was the same Templar who’d been polite to him last time.

“Ser Lysette,” Dorian acknowledged with a nod, having made a point to find out her name.

“Lord Pavus,” she nodded back.

As he passed into the next room, he overheard the man saying, “You’re just gonna let the Vint through, no questions?”

“Do _you_ want to explain to the Commander why we harassed his beau?” Ser Lysette replied.

Dorian smirked and made no attempt to hide his self-satisfied good cheer as he strolled over to Halward’s cell.

“The prodigal returns,” Halward drawled; he was looking more drawn and haggard than last visit, and apparently his mood had soured as well. “Have you come to your senses? Are you finally going to get your father released from this ridiculous confinement?”

“Oh, do be quiet—I’m here to gloat, and I’ll not let you ruin it for me.” Dorian released a little zap of lightning in Halward’s direction, but it fizzled out against the anti-magic protections inside the cell. The wards flickered but held, despite being designed more to prevent an occupant from drawing on the Fade, rather than dispelling magic cast from outside. A pity—it would’ve been satisfying to torment him a bit.

Instead, Dorian brandished the letter. “Really, Father, how could you neglect to mention that your dear, devoted wife has forsaken you? Imagine my surprise when I learned there’s a Pavus with enough integrity to _not_ risk my life in a dangerous ritual!”

“Your mother will see reason once her temper cools.”

“Mm, yes, _cool temper_ is precisely what Aquinea is know for.” Dorian clicked his tongue. “It’s a shame Mother’s informants aren’t nearly as clever or widespread as yours. We could have been saved all this hassle, if only I’d gotten such a letter before Redcliffe.”

Halward sighed. “Always so dramatic. You speak as if I have a network of agents working against you.”

Dorian raised an eyebrow. “Haven’t you? It seems I’m never far enough away to escape your meddling, and Cullen is hardly the first collateral damage.”

“What ever are you going on about?”

“ _Rilienus_ ,” Dorian over-enunciated. He’d never found the courage to confront Halward about this before, but there was nothing holding him back now.

“Who?” his father said, and Dorian’s blood _boiled_.

“The lovely Laetan boy I was courting while apprenticed to Alexius.”

Halward scoffed. “Dorian, that was _years_ ago. Must you dredge up every little slight from our past?”

“Little? Slight?” His voice went icy and quiet. “I loved him, and you had him sent to Seheron, and he was _captured and tortured to death by Qunari_.”

Halward raised his eyebrows in a look of mild regard. “I assumed you were past all that, seeing as how you’re working so closely with the Qunari who killed the poor lad.”

Every muscle in Dorian’s limbs locked up and froze like he’d been hit with Winter’s Grasp. Dread coiled like a snake in the empty pit of his stomach. “ _What_.”

“The Iron Bull, Hissrad, stationed in northwest Seheron for close to a decade. Right time, right place, and it’s not as if there was a surplus of highly trained Ben-Hassrath agents available to run prisoner interrogations. It was him.”

The cold sensation spread like an ice spell through his chest, threatening to stop his heart. “You’re lying. You couldn’t possibly know that.”

“Which part do you find so hard to believe—that I’d investigate the people working closely with my only son and heir? That the Magisterium would keep records on the activities of particular Qunari agents?” Halward sighed. “Believe me or don’t, it’s not as if it matters one way or the other to me. Honestly, I’d assumed you would have figured it out for yourself by now.”

A wave of vertigo washed over Dorian, as if he’d been standing on the edge of terrible precipice for _months_ and only just now saw the cliff for what it was. How could he have been so blind, that he did not even think to look for this?

The Iron Bull murdered Rilienus.

Bull was a dead man walking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me, y’all. Your lovely comments give me life!


	16. Chapter 16

Cullen was at his desk when he felt a _tug_ , like an invisible fishhook caught somewhere behind his sternum and gently but insistently reeling him in. The sensation felt so tangible that he lost a moment to confusion before he realized that nothing was physically happening to his body. No, it was the bond calling attention to itself, and then he suddenly just _knew_ : something was wrong with Dorian.

Before he could think twice, Cullen was on his feet and dashing onto the battlements, through the empty tower and down the steps that hugged the inner wall. In the upper courtyard near the practice ring, the Iron Bull was facing off against a moving skeleton with nothing but a practice shield. Wreathed in the purple mist of necromancy, the skeleton threw itself at Bull with unnatural strength, scrabbling ferociously at the wooden shield, and the dismembered bones scattered in the dust suggested it wasn’t the first. Dorian stood by, his whole body tense and his focus locked on Bull like a snake scenting its prey, that same purple mist spiraling up his arms.

“What, no shocked denials?” the mage was saying.

“Dorian! What is the meaning of this?”

“Cullen, darling, do mind your own business.” The words sounded sharp-edged and dangerous in a way that was utterly foreign to him, a side of Dorian he’d never glimpsed. It was rage, he realized— _incandescent_ rage, shining through the crisp, falsely light tone. “The Iron Bull and I are busy swapping war stories, aren’t we Bull?”

Bull shield-bashed the skeleton, knocking it back a few paces and buying himself a few seconds. “Dammit, Vint, I’d really rather have an actual conversation, with a little more ale and a little less angry possessed dead stuff.”

“They sent him back _in pieces_ , Bull. Did you know you can tell from the pattern of blood loss whether a dismemberment happened before or after death? Do you want to _guess_ which it was, for my lovely Rilienus?”

Over near the door to the armory, the dirt of the courtyard slowly erupted, roiling and churning as skeletal hands clawed their way out of the ground, three more ancient corpses rising to join the assault. But the part that made Cullen’s stomach drop out from under him was the way Dorian moved his fingers while casting—like a lutenist plucking strings, like a puppeteer, _like Uldred using the blood in his veins to make him dance for their amusement._ Cullen heaved air in and out of his lungs, and his vision threatened to tunnel; he knew he should step in and attempt to defuse the situation before someone got hurt, but his feet seemed to be too heavy to move.

Bull said something that Cullen missed, but whatever it was cracked the brittle façade of Dorian’s control, and he screamed, “ _Was it you?!_ ”

“I don’t know!” Bull shouted back, his tone agonized.

The mage let out a bark of humorless laughter. “Why? Did you torture to death so many Laetans that you can’t possibly be expected to remember all their names?”

“I turned myself in to the re-educators,” Bull answered between shield bashes, holding the skeletons at bay. “My memory of Seheron is spotty at best.” 

“Well isn’t that convenient? Why do you get to forget, when I’ve had to live with the consequences of that pointless war for _seven years_?”

“Dorian, please,” Cullen choked out, not even entirely sure what he was asking him to please do.

For the first time since he entered the courtyard, Dorian turned his head and looked directly at him, the mage’s eyes lambent with power. Terror lanced through Cullen like chain lightning— _no, no, no, fuck no,_ he’d seen that kind of glow in the eyes of blood mages before they erupted into abominations, and Cullen _couldn’t_ , he couldn’t fucking do this, he couldn’t lose Dorian not like that it would kill him…

A flicker of regret passed over the mage’s countenance before he turned his attention back to Bull. “Of course we’re such good friends now, water under the bridge and all that,” Dorian spat, “and I’ve come up with just the perfect _fuck the Qun_ gift for you, my dear friend the Iron Bull. You’re going to love it!”

Dorian raised his arms high and _pulled_ on the Fade so forcefully that Cullen felt it in his spine, even with his templar abilities nearly gone. The energy gathered and built, and all the hairs on the back of his neck stood up as Dorian completed the spell in a rush like the landing of a tidal wave. He couldn’t tell what, exactly, the mage had done, except that it was a _massive_ casting—he’d felt that kind of energy release only once in his life, when Meredith had used the eldritch power of her red lyrium sword to waken the statues in the Gallows courtyard. (The explosion at the Conclave had been an order of magnitude worse, but at least he hadn’t been standing near the caster when it happened.) This was bad; this was very, very bad.

Cullen glanced around at the smattering of other spectators, his inner strategist tucking away the panic and going to work. “Harding, round up Cassandra, Vivienne, Briony—anyone who can purge or dispel.”

“Right away, Commander.” Scout Harding dashed off without pausing to question the order.

Krem skidded onto the scene, tossing a practice sword to Bull and then backing away with fists clenched when Bull gave him a _don’t get involved_ look. Bull turned his attention to hacking the skeletons to pieces with the blunt-edged weapon, so that was one problem more or less sorted. Dorian was holding up less well—he swayed on his feet, the purple mist swirling around his arms dissipated, and his hands dropped to his sides. Cullen was already dashing forward when he fell to his knees in the dirt and slumped over.

“Dorian? Dorian!”

Cullen gathered the mage in his arms, desperately checking for signs of life. He was breathing, thank the Maker—the glow was gone from his eyes, leaving his gaze glassy and unfocused.

“Cullen? Think I might’ve… overdone it a bit…”

_Overdone it_ was a gross understatement; Dorian had overextended himself well past the point of dangerous mana imbalance. “Somebody get me some _fucking_ lyrium!” Cullen bellowed at the top of his lungs.

He was peripherally aware that the sound of bones crunching and clattering to the ground had ceased, and Krem was saying “What the ever-loving fuck, Chief?” but none of that mattered. Dorian’s eyes rolled back and he went limp in his arms, losing consciousness.

“No!” Cullen shook him gently. “Please, love, wake up—stay with me, Dorian…”

Cassandra was suddenly there, taking a knee at his side. “Cullen, what has happened here?”

“I—I don’t know,” he sobbed, clinging to Dorian. “He’s dying.”

Commotion, more people arrived, voices talking over one another; Cullen couldn’t keep track of anything except Dorian’s unsteady breaths.

Finally, an eternity later, Federick appeared. “I got it,” he gasped, out of breath. “Commander, here.”

The apprentice pressed a small glass vial into Cullen’s hand. His veins burned with need at the sight of the blue liquid, but he poured every drop into Dorian’s mouth without hesitation. He thumbed at the mage’s throat, encouraging his swallow reflex, then waited, tense as a bowstring as he searched for any sign of improvement.

When it had no visible effect, Cullen barked, “Another!”

“No sir,” Federick answered with surprising confidence given how intimidated he always seemed. “If we try to rouse him too quickly from the imbalance, it could kill him.”

“Then what do we do?!”

“I’ll grab the stretcher, we can move him to the infirmary—” Federick cut himself off, his head jerking up as if someone called his name. “What is that, sir?”

Then Cullen felt it, too: the ground was trembling slightly, a short, repetitive tremor that was soon accompanied by a distant and deep _thunk, thunk, thunk_ , like the battering ram against the gates of Adamant. As the sound grew louder, he could make out the patter of crumbling masonry and the scrape of _something_ against stone.

Whatever Dorian had summoned, it was climbing the outer wall of Skyhold. And it was _big_.

Cassandra barked orders as the upper courtyard became a point of convergence for guards, the Chargers, more inner circle members—all with wary expressions and weapons at the ready. They had only a minute or two to prepare before the danger was upon them.

_Thunk, thunk, scraaape._ The skull that crested the parapet was big as a Fereldan Forder and haloed in wicked horns, the bone glistening with a golden tint. Glowing purple smoke trailed from its empty eyesockets and billowed out from between teeth the length of daggers. The monster arched and fanned its empty wingbones, and then Cullen’s brain caught up with what his eyes were seeing: it was a dragon. A reanimated high dragon skeleton.

“Maker’s breath,” he swore.

Cullen decided that he could have all _sorts_ of feelings about that later, when Dorian wasn’t lying unconscious on the very ground that the dragon seemed intent on occupying in the immediate future. He slipped his arms beneath the mage’s shoulders and knees and stood. (Federick made a small, surprised noise, clearly not expecting the commander to simply lift Dorian on his own, but Cullen had spent his entire adult life training under forty pounds of plate armor and could handle it.) They made their way to the infirmary, where Cullen deposited Dorian on a cot and—probably unnecessarily—ordered Federick to stay there and monitor his condition.

A sonorous crash brought him running back out into the courtyard, where the dragon skeleton had clamored onto the roof of the armory, taking out shingles by the dozens as well as one of the dormer windows. He watched as Cassandra brought her hands together in a mighty spell purge. The glowing necromantic mist guttered briefly like a candleflame in a light breeze, but the dragon shook its massive head and kept coming, its front feet landing on the ground with a _thud_ that shook the whole courtyard.

“Templars to the front!” Cassandra shouted. “We must coordinate to increase the magnitude of the purge. On my count!”

Briony, Barris, and a half-dozen other former templars lined up and, on Cassandra’s count of three, released simultaneous spell purges that surged over the courtyard like an invisible cleansing fire. The light in the dragon’s empty eyesockets was extinguished, and it collapsed in an avalanche of bones.

As the dust settled and the surgeon swept through, checking for injuries, the Iron Bull threw down his practice shield with so much force the wood cracked.

“I am so pissed at that Vint,” Bull shouted. “He ruined _dragons!_ ”

******

Cullen did not want to be in the War Room. He wanted to be at Dorian’s side in the infirmary, watching his chest rise and fall as reassurance that the man yet lived. Or alternately he wanted Dorian to be awake and better enough that he could _throttle_ the mage himself—the essentially contradictory nature of these two urges did nothing to weaken either of them.

And either way, an emergency council meeting was not where he wanted to be. With Lavellan in the field, it was just him, Leliana, and Josephine… and the Iron Bull, attempting to explain the source of the conflict.

“So,” Leliana said, as cool and collected as ever. “You can neither confirm nor refute the accusation that you killed Dorian’s former lover?”

Bull heaved a sigh. “Seheron was a shitshow. Enhanced interrogation techniques were common on both sides, and the Qun doesn’t do prisoner exchanges. You’re captured, you’re dead. So.” He scrubbed his palm along his stubbed jaw. “Yeah, it’s not impossible. It could have been me.”

“But what made Dorian suddenly arrive at such a conclusion?” the spymaster mused.

“That part I was unclear on. Little busy trying not to get chewed on by creepy dead fuckers.”

As Leliana prodded for information, Cullen was failing miserably in his attempt to not get hung up on the fact that Dorian had a first love whom he’d never mentioned, and who clearly still evoked some rather powerful emotions in the mage. What a useless and petty feeling this was, to be jealous of a dead man. Yet another thing he did not want to feel today; it would sit nicely on the mental shelf right beside the _abject horror_ of seeing a magically reanimated monster invading Skyhold.

A knock at the door preceded Gatsi Sturhald, who handed a sheet of paper to Josephine. “Preliminary damage report. I’ll know more once I get down into the lower levels, but…” The dwarf scratched at his beard. “Well I won’t lie, this is gonna set us back.”

Josephine nodded to him. “Thank you for your efforts as always, Master Sturhald.”

Gatsi snorted at the formality. “On the upside, Harritt’s gonna cream his pants when we tell him we really need all that dragon bone crafted into armor, if only to clear the damn courtyard of the stuff.”

The dwarf opened the door to let himself out, and instead a scout came careening into the War Room, out of breath and eyes wide in panic. “Commander, you must—must come immediately,” he panted. “Th—the dungeons…”

Cullen felt a heavy weight of dread settle in his stomach. “What about the dungeons, _exactly_?”

******

Dorian stirred and shied away from consciousness with soft whimper. He felt like he had the worst hangover in the history of Thedas, or perhaps a deadly plague. Someone peeled back his eyelids with their thumbs and the light stabbed into skull; he gave a whine of protest and batted at the hands until they let him squeeze his eyes shut again.

“No sign of possession,” a familiar voice said.

“Cullen?” he croaked out, his mouth dry and cottony.

“I’m here,” the commander answered, his voice tight with contained emotion.

“Some water, Lord Pavus?” The healer’s apprentice helped him shift up to recline against the headboard and gave him a cup to sip from. The water soothed his throat a little, although it landed in his stomach with a nauseous weight. His head throbbed like a herd of druffalo were stampeding around inside his skull.

Dorian squinted at Cullen, seated at his bedside, taking in his clenched jaw and tense shoulders. “You’re angry.”

“You’re perceptive.”

His memory of _why_ Cullen might be furious with him was coming back gradually, in little flashes that he fit together like puzzle pieces. The conversation with his father. The way Bull’s calm, reasonable tone—like he was trying to gentle a wild horse—just tossed fuel on the fire of Dorian’s rage. Cullen’s wide-eyed stare, his hand going unconsciously to his hip to grab a sword hilt that was not there, as if he thought he might have to defend himself against _Dorian_.

The moment when he reached out with his mind, beyond the walls of Skyhold, and found something old and great slumbering in the dirt, and it seemed big enough to hold his fury.

He could not recall the end, so he braced himself to ask. “Is Bull…?”

Cullen huffed. “No, thankfully, your little murder plot failed. But did you even consider the consequences? The possibility for collateral damage? When your undead pet climbed the battlements, its foot caved in the wall of the apprentice dormitory.”

Dorian’s heart _stopped_. “Stanton—?”

“…is fine, by the grace of Andraste. But he could’ve been killed.”

Taking deep breaths to slow his frantic pulse, Dorian rubbed his ribs below his left pectoral. “Festis bei umo canavarum, saying such things. Next time, _lead_ with the part where Stanton’s all right. Gave me a heart attack.”

“There is more, and it’s going to be difficult to hear.” He wasn’t meeting Dorian’s gaze, and the fingers of one hand dug into his thigh above the knee, as if Cullen were physically forcing himself to stay seated. “Your father took advantage of your magic to escape from the dungeons.”

“What.” No. That couldn’t—he must have heard Cullen wrong, because…

“You can ask Dagna for the details, but from what I understand, a casting of that magnitude weakened the anti-magic fields from the outside. Apparently it wouldn’t have been enough for a single blood mage to break free, but Halward and Erimond worked in concert.”

Dorian stared dumbly for a moment before he managed to dredge his brain for some kind of logical protest. “They weren’t in adjacent cells. How would they coordinate such a thing?”

“Presumably with the help of a spy. We’ll know more once Leliana completes her investigation.”

Dorian swallowed, his throat gone dry as a thought occurred to him. “They were under guard…”

“Ser Lysette and Guardsman Kellar were murdered and drained to fuel the escape.” Cullen spoke as if he were giving a debriefing in the War Room, but then a hint of bitterness bled into his tone. “I suppose a four-hundred foot drop down a cliff face isn’t such an obstacle with blood magic.”

“Kaffas.”

Dorian pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes. Panic spread through his chest like slow-kindling fire. He’d fucked up; he’d fucked up on a new, epic scale that blew all of his life’s previous fuck ups out of the water. Remorse threatened to choke him. He wanted to abscond with Alexius’s amulet and rewind the thread of time, get a do-over.

In his mind, he played back the conversation with Halward in the dungeon, combing over the memory. Dorian was a fool, his father had manipulated him. Halward had known exactly which buttons to push to induce him to do something rash. He’d been sitting in that cell for _weeks_ , planning exactly how to steer their next conversation toward Rilienus and Bull without being too obvious about it. But there was no point in telling this to Cullen now—it would only sound like an excuse.

When he dropped his hands into his lap, Cullen was finally looking at him. There was a reserved distance in his gaze that reminded him of how Cullen used to be before all this, in Haven, when Dorian was nothing but a suspicious, irritating foreigner to him. Cullen’s walls were back up.

“You’re afraid of me,” Dorian realized.

Cullen expression twisted into a grimace. “You had a temper tantrum, and now two of my people are dead! We’re only lucky the body count isn’t higher.”

“Exacting vengeance for the gruesome murder of a loved one isn’t a _temper tantrum_ ,” he snapped. Probably not the best time to get testy about semantics, but his rage over what happened to Rilienus was still simmering close to the surface.

“It is when you do it with reckless disregard for the safety of everyone around you. Maker, Dorian—if Cassandra had been in the field instead of here to coordinate the response, your dragon corpse would’ve laid waste to Skyhold.” Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose as if he was contending with a headache to match Dorian’s own. “You could have brought your case before Lavellan and requested that Bull be tried for war crimes. But of course you didn’t.”

Cullen snapped his jaw shut, cutting off what else he might have said, but the unspoken subtext rang like a bell in the silence. _Of course you didn’t, because you are a mage, and mages destroy cities in a fit of pique_.

Dorian’s eyes filled with moisture and his sinuses stung. “Ser Lysette was kind to me. I never meant to put her in danger, or any other bystander for that matter. Cullen, please, I’m sorry.”

“I can’t do this.” Cullen shot out of his chair and strode quickly from the infirmary, leaving Dorian alone with his churning thoughts.

Dorian prayed that the _this_ Cullen couldn’t do was having this conversation right now. But there was a traitorous corner of his mind that whispered the likelier meaning: _I can’t do this, I can’t be in love with a mage_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting schedule? What's a posting schedule?
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's still reading! Your comments give me life. More drama to come soon.


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